Henry Injured
by EugeniaVictoria
Summary: A joust with momentous consequences – what if Henry lost his memory in his accident? He does not remember anything but feels an undying attraction for a certain woman whose eyes are like hooks for the soul. Anne/Henry/Jane. NOT ABANDONED! TERRIBLY SORRY FOR THE LACK OF UPDATES. CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S BEEN ALMOST 9 MONTHS. WILL UPDATE AS SOON AS I CAN, HOPEFULLY LATE OCT. / EARLY NOV.!
1. Death of a rival, part 1

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**HENRY INJURED**

**Setting and Plot:**

**After the death of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII finds himself in a state of emotional turmoil. Infatuated with a new lady, his patience with his own wife, the fierce and controversial Anne Boleyn, is waning. Anne, desperate in the face of her empty womb and the threat of Jane Seymour's presence at court, fears for her marriage and her title as Queen. She seems doomed to fail, when something happens that will change her life forever ... and that of everyone else involved.**

**Main characters: Anne, Henry, Jane Seymour and Mary Tudor. Many others make an appearance.**

**Changes: Anne is NOT pregnant as the story unfolds.**

**AND SO IT BEGINS ...**

* * *

**Prologue**

**Death of a rival - Part one**

**Wiltshire, England, 24th of October, 1537**

"Please, Father, Doctor Green," the young man opened the heavy wooden door and made way for the priest and the old doctor to enter the dimly lit room.

The windows were shut, and as he stepped forward Father James noticed that the chamber had been heated to the point of insufferableness, according to the popular belief that a cold room and fresh air would bring a quick, sudden death to the patient. Some candles were burning, tender lights in the semi-darkness, illuminating the expensive furniture and striking colours of the fine tapestries. On the wall across from the entrance, a great bed loomed ominously, its curtains drawn, hiding the patient from view.

Father James approached the bed and startled a little when a woman stepped out of the shadows looking at him with tranquil, tired eyes. She was slender, almost too thin, as if she had not eaten anything for weeks. In her gaze there was an anxious pleading accompanied by slowly vanishing hope. Recognizing her, he smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, blessing her before meeting her stare with a silent question in his eyes.

She shrugged apathetically, holding back tears. "I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen. My sweet child… "

"Hush, my daughter," he patted her shoulder. "You must pray God for help."

Letting him by, she sobbed, and then began to pray silently in the background, leaning into the young man who came to her side and embraced her. Father James walked to the right side of the bed.

There, woeful and diseased, lay the still form of a young woman. Her blonde hair was tousled, her brow sweaty, the flawless skin seemed ashen pale despite the warm glow of the candlelight. Her alms lay motionlessly on the white linen sheet, which was crumpled and drenched. In her feeble hands she held a silver cross. It was a miserable sight, the image of a weak broken flower subdued by fatal illness.

She had been sick for two weeks now, suffering from a dreadful fever and fits of pain in her whole body. The doctor had been summoned from London to examine her, and the man had not left the house since his arrival. Green had tried everything – bloodletting, medicines, exotic concoctions – but the woman's condition was still unchanged. Sometimes she spoke deliriously, arching up in the bed, tossing and turning. At other times she was completely conscious, her eyes clear and undimmed, and she would ask for nothing but water and another cool cloth for her brow. This constant change of condition held the household in turmoil and fear, for no one could ever be sure what would happen next. By now, the mother was desperate, the doctor helpless, and the maids unsettled and frightened. They were defenseless before these ever-changing symptoms of illness and the fear that crept into their own bones, making them wonder whether or not the patient would survive the night. Every day the priest came to the house, they would greet him in a most devout mood, and then pray for hours and hours under his guidance beside the sickbed. The mother was the most uneasy of them all, for in her youth she had enjoyed some instruction in the basics of healing, and knew very well that a fever like this could go hand in hand with death.

The priest felt the doctor step up to him, and shook himself out of his reverie.

"My child," he addressed the woman soothingly, holding a hand to her brow.

He was shocked when he found it burning with the heat of a scorching flame. She opened her eyes and smiled as she beheld his familiar face, muttering something inaudible. Her eyes were glazed and red-rimmed, the lids heavy, and a disturbing frailty accompanied even the smallest movement she made. Looking at her feeble hands, the yellowish stain around her nose, and the dark circles under her eyes, he knew beyond doubt that there was no hope. He had seen too many people die to make a false diagnose now, seen too many who had lain beneath sweaty sheets like this, spiritless and exhausted. The strength of life was leaving her, weakening her limbs and poisoning her mind. There was no doctor, no remedy that would safe her now.

He let go of her heated skin, and, lifting himself up turned to the doctor who was standing motionlessly by his side. Green nodded at the silent question in the priest's gaze.

"I've tried everything I know," he whispered, "but she continues to weaken. I'm afraid there's nothing left to try."

Father James nodded, crossing himself, "God have mercy on her."

Doctor Green cast a subtle glance at the mother and the young man standing in the background, who were trying to hear what they were saying. "I must go and tell them. There's not much time left."

He walked past the priest and took the lady by the arm, gently guiding her out of the room. The young man followed. A moment later, a cry could be heard from outside, followed by the clatter of swiftly approaching feet. The doctor's smooth voice rose and fell like a comforting chant.

The priest sat silently on a stool next to the bed, watching the fluttering of the patient's lashes, the occasional twitching of her mouth. He thought what a pity it was that this sweet young woman was to die, a female in her prime, who had thought to live for another twenty or thirty years. He had known her a long time, from childhood on, and he remembered how she looked the last time he had seen her, a few months before her illness – healthy and strong, beautiful in a turquoise dress, the golden hair like a halo, setting off her flawless skin. She had been happy then, full of hope. Her current state, this weak and dishevelled piece of human flesh, was but a parody of her true appearance.

Muttering a prayer for her soul, he bent his head in woeful silence. Suddenly, he felt her touch his folded hands. He looked up in surprise when he heard her weak voice, "Father… is it… true? Tell me…" Sh licked her parched lips. "Will I …" There was no fear in her eyes, no sorrow, just plain questioning.

"My daughter," James said tenderly. "You must make your peace with God."

She did not stir, nor reply in any way, but there was a queer look in her eyes, as if she had known, had long ago reconciled herself with the possibility of her own death. With shaking hands she reached for the pendant upon her breast and pressed it to her lips, her eyes closed. There was something so honest and brave about this gesture that it sent a shiver down Father James' spine, and he frowned at the injustice of life.

But then, as the noise outside the room became louder, he remembered his duties and removed himself from his chair. Everything must be prepared.

"My child," he said, leaning over the bed, "prepare yourself for Mass." She nodded faintly, never letting go of the cross in her hands.

The room was filled with hushed noises as Doctor Green and the closest family members entered the room – the lady's mother, worn and weary, tears in her eyes. She could rely on nobody – her husband had died a year ago. Following her was the dying woman's husband, walking slowly, overwhelming sorrow contorting his handsome face. Some maids, clothed in black, gathered in a corner of the room.

The young man sat down to take one of his wife's hands in his own. "My darling," he mumbled, pressing a kiss into her palm. "I'm here, my own love."

Lady Seymour, walking over to Father James, gestured to one of the maids to come over to them, and whispered into her ear. The girl left the room. A few moments later she returned with a small bowl and a finely made goblet, and a pitcher of wine. She put the items down on a commode, sobbing. Father James removed a small pouch from his belongings that contained the bread for Mass. He put the small rounds into the provided bowl and blessed them. They would be needed for Holy Communion later. Bending down again, he produced a heavy bible from his stuff and opened it. He made the sign of the cross with his right hand.

_"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."_

And thus Holy Mass began, according to the traditions of the holy Catholic Church, as it had always been in this house. It was soothing to hear the familiar words, the voice of the priest ringing out to those present in the room like a benediction, blessing them, comforting them, silencing their cries.

_"Pater noster, qui es in caelis…"_

They joined him, reciting the ancient verses that gave so much hope.

_"Sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra… "_

It went ever on, the priest's hands rising and falling in the sign of the cross, the mumbled replies of the audience, the faint, almost inaudible whispers of the sick woman in her deathbed. Then, later, the Confiteor, soothing in its serene beauty, and the patient's lips moved with more strength as she beat her breast three times in a row.

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et vobis fratres: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opera: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

Death was drawing nigh, the feeling was unmistakable.

The young husband, so unlike his usual self, was now knealing beside his wife, desperately massaging her hands. His barely stifled weeping was a torment to everyone's ears, so pitiful it sounded. The mother, head bent, prayed devoutly, folding her hands so tightly that the knuckles turned white. They prayed the rosaries, beseeching the Holy Virgin for help.

_"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."_

„Amen," the woman in the bed whispered, louder than before, pressing the cross to her lips.

Later, the priest ushered them all out to hear her confession in privacy. They left but hesitantly, unwilling to leave their beloved one behind, turning back and looking at her still form with anguish in their eyes. When the door had closed behind them, Father James approached the bed. Taking a seat next to it, he addressed the young lady calmly. "My child. Do you have a confession?"

She looked at him, her pale lips quivering as she made an attempt to speak. "Yes," she answered.

Nodding, the priest waited patiently for her confession. It was a strange moment – the light of the candles illuminating the woman's face as she prepared herself for the final admission of her sins, the heavy lids closing for a fleeting moment as if she needed to strengthen herself for her next words. A silence fell, the harbinger of death, for it was obvious now that she was weakened beyond healing.

Eventually, she managed to speak, looking at him with truthful eyes that were, even in this dreadful hour, as clear and blue as two flawless aquamarines.

"I confess to God Almighty… that I have sinned against many in my life… in word and deed… and in my thoughts. I confess that I have not always borne towards God... our merciful Lord… the submissiveness and worship that we all owe Him… Him who is everything, whereas we – we are nothing. I have sinned against Him, and I have sinned against many a man and woman here on earth… I often forgot that we're all bound to serve… serve and obey. I confess that I have sinned against my parents, my brothers, my sisters… even my own husband… and against my own conscience, wherefore… I beg God for forgiveness."

She halted a moment, as if thing she was about to say burdened her greatly.

"As for the King, my lord… I solemnly swear on the damnation of my soul… that I have never willingly offended his Majesty. I do not say that I always bore towards him the humility which I owed him, considering… the kindness he showed me… and the great respect he always paid me. But God knows and is my witness, I have never wished him anything but happiness… nor ever sinned against him in any other way."

The priest was stunned. He knew little of the things that had happened between her and his gracious Highness.

"I pray God… in His mercy… to forgive me my shortcomings and guide me… to eternal life."

She lay still as Father James made the sign of the cross on her brow. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. May God in His infinite mercy and grace keep and protect you. Through Christ our Lord."

She gazed up at him. "Now… would you please fetch my mother and husband… so I may say farewell."

"Of course, my lady," he replied and swiftly made his way to the door.

Darkness was falling over world outside when, finally, it was time for Holy Communion.

Mother and husband had spent an hour or longer in the room, hovering beside the sickbed and taking farewell of the one they loved. But now – now it was time for the final benediction, the body and blood of Christ, broken and shed for God's children. On a commode, the necessary utensils had been prepared, and Father James blessed them before he took one piece of bread and put it into the woman's slightly opened mouth. "The body of Christ, broken for you." She swallowed with difficulty, but as she closed her eyes a look of most serene piety came to her face.

He took a great goblet from the commode and filled it with the smallest amount of wine. He went over to the dying one and, guiding the vessel to her lips, said: "The blood of Christ, shed for you." Her husband held her head as she drank.

_"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper,et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."_

Crossing themselves, the people in the room stifled their sobs as the priest put the goblet aside. The weak voice from the bed announced: "Mother… you must write a letter for me. I can't do it myself."

The lady, distressed and upset, yet still impeccably attired and coiffed, took a seat next to her daughter. A maid handed her a small portable desk, which could be positioned on her lap, then paper, ink, and a feather. A gloomy silence fell as the woman waited for her child to speak.

"Write… to the King's most gracious Highness: I am Your Grace's most humble and loyal servant… even in death. I pray God send thee long to reign over England… for a better nor a more merciful prince was there never… and to me… thou were ever a good, a gentle, and sovereign lord."

The scratching of the pen was ominous and unnerving, sending a chill down their backs, but they listened carefully. Father James noticed that a queer look came to the husband's eyes at the mentioning of the King.

The woman breathed heavily before she went on. "I beseech Jesus to save your Majesty's wife, Queen Anne, who has been so good to me … and treated me so well. I pray God send her long life and happiness, for a more deserving lady is there not… nor a gentler or more gracious queen in all the world." Rapidly, the mother's fingers flew over the yellowish paper, the thin, unadorned hand a product of her haste. "I pray, also, for the life of your Majesty's blessed children… Prince Edward … the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth - and the Lady Mary Tudor. May God keep them… through Christ our Lord."

A great fatigue came over her, and her mother assisted her as she signed the letter with trembling fingers. When it was done, she collapsed back into bed.

"It's time," Doctor Green whispered to the priest. The man of God, seeing the obvious signs of quickly approaching demise on the patient's face, took his bible from the commode and began to recite more familiar verses that he thought would be a comfort to all of them. In the background, the maids sank to their knees, lips moving in silent prayer.

The dying woman's husband knelt beside the bed, covering his wife's left hand with his own. Her other hand still clasped the cross pendant. Noticing his presence, she smiled. "My own darling. Don't be troubled for me." Her voice was stronger now. "I'm going to a better place… I'm not frightened." She lead their entwined hands to her mouth and kissed the back of his hand.

"Don't go," he breathed. "Please..."

She pressed his palm, her eyes rolling back in a fit of pain before they returned to his desolate face. "I commend unto you… all that is in my personal possession. My love, don't be troubled for me. Nothing of this is your fault. You're so brave… so strong… have always been so good to me –"

He wanted to cry out loud, scream and sob like a child, protest wildly against the unfairness of life, but he held himself back, for her sake. He kissed her hand again and again, savouring the feeling of her soft flesh against his lips. How could he live without her?

The voice of the priest echoed through the chamber as he recited those hopeful verses, those ancient words, which had accompanied so many at the hour of death.

_"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul…"_

As the psalm went on, the young husband and the lady of the house leaned down towards the woman in the bed, whose voice was now rising and falling in a final prayer. "Almighty and everlasting God… I beseech Thee… save those I love and keep them in Your mercy. I pray You… save me from the fires of purgatory… guide me to heaven… to Thee I commend my soul."

The candles seemed to burn with more intensity than before, small bright lights in the darkness, warm and comforting like a divine touch, a greeting from Heaven. Soothing as an angel's was the priest's voice, melodious and ever the same.

_"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… I fear no evil, for you are with me."_

Death was near, she felt it as she lay there, weak and diseased, beneath the linen sheets. She knew it, and she was not frightened. A calm surrender took hold of her, easing the pain in her body. Her skin was burning like fire, but it did not matter now. Nothing mattered, nothing but the safeguard of her soul, the forgiveness of God. A great sadness overcame her as she beheld her husband hovering next to her, tears running down his smooth skin. The love she knew he bore her was beautiful and sacred, the only true blessing life had ever granted her. They had had so little time together since their reconciliation, and yet these last few months had been the happiest of her life. Oh, how bitter it was to leave him behind, in this cold, mad world, to be on his own. But God had called her to Him, He had taught her how to die, and He would strengthen her faith. She was too weak now to make an effort. She had reconciled to her own end, for there was no remedy. And so she prayed with all that was in her, beseeching the forces of Heaven to guide her, forgive her, save her.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God… blessed Virgin… pray for me now at the hour of death. I confess my sins…. and pray for absolution. Oh Lord God have pity on my soul… to Christ I commend my soul." She pressed the cross pendant to her quivering lips as if she kissed the Holy Grail, closing her eyes in a most pious gesture. Her heavy breathing filled the room, the candles set her waxen face aglow. "Lord Jesus receive my soul… to Christ I commend my soul."

The priest made the sign of the cross, and his voice died down with the last verses of the psalm.

_"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."_

The woman opened her eyes, peering at the bed's ceiling, and then turned her head slightly to look at her mother and husband. She watched them tenderly as they stood there, so stricken, so desperate.

With the last of her strength she whispered, "Don't you despair. All is well again… all is mended."

From the young husband's chest a cry emerged. It rose into the air like a bird, flying out of the window and into the darkness, where its echo startled many a midnight stroller.

A million stars loomed against the black of the sky, sparkling with the intensity of diamonds – bemoaning the death of Jane Seymour.


	2. Death of a rival, part 2

_**In case you're confused: Yes, Anne is still Queen. Elizabeth is still Princess. This is the second part of the prologue - I hope it'll clear things up. The prologue itself is just an introduction describing the situation in autumn 1537. The following chapters will deal with the interval from January 1536 (time of Henry's accident) up until Jane's death. Don't be put off, you'll understand what's going on sooner or later.**_

**Prologue**

**Death of rival - Part two**

* * *

It was grey and cold outside when Anne Boleyn, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, entirely beloved wife to his gracious Majesty, left Hampton Court on her way to the realm of Wiltshire on the early morning of 26 October 1537.

She was accompanied by her favourite ladies in waiting, Nan Saville and Margaret Shelton, and five members of the royal guard, riding in front and behind the coach of the ladies.

The leading rider was announcing the approach of her Majesty in his harsh, loud voice as they were making their way out of the palace's nearest surroundings, where normally many strollers and merry people could be found. Today, though, there were not many of them to be seen, for the weather was all too English. Nevertheless, those who caught sight of the royal carriage hurried to bow quickly, shouting "Vivat Anna! Vivat!", all the while trying to glance at the Queen, who did not lean out of the window to wave her beringed hand as she usually did.

"Bless you, Queen Anne!" A woman cried, sweeping a deep curtsy. Like everyone else, she wondered where her Majesty was going. This was no proper day for a jaunt. She hoped to get a last glimpse of her Majesty, who was always so elegantly attired, but only her ladies peeked out of the coach and greeted politely.

Leaning back in, Nan smiled at her mistress. "Your Highness is very popular among the English people."

Anne frowned, tearing her eyes away from the small window. "That may be true. And I'm deeply grateful therefore, for I know, too, what it means to be unloved by them."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Nan and Magde threw each other a knowing glance before looking down at their laps. The Queen was in a doleful mood today, and it bothered them, for over the last few months she had been entirely content and jovial. Secure in the knowledge of his Majesty's true affection, deprived of all worries, she had been the most gracious and generous of all women.

But now – now she seemed sombre and all too calm. They had last seen her like this when his Majesty had been chasing after another woman – when the lack of a son had threatened her position as the king's wife. She had been so frightened then.

But that was long past.

By now, Anne the Queen was more powerful, more beloved than ever before, more than anyone could ever have imagined. She was untouchable, invincible. Over the last 18 months, ever since the accident of the king in January 1536 and its aftermath, she had changed her own life and the history of England by reinstating a most beloved royal daughter, thus gaining the love of her people and the respect of her enemies. And finally, the blessed, long-awaited gift she had made her husband and England but a while ago, would immortalize her name for all centuries.

Yes, the Queen had every reason to be happy - but today, she was not.

As they struggled to avoid each other's eyes in the uncomfortable coach, Nan Saville thought of the Queen's sadness, for she, unlike Madge, knew what was happening. They were going to Wiltshire - the realm where, surrounded by deep woods, Wolfhall stood: an impressive mansion, home to Jane Seymour's family. The realm where, but two days ago, the knells of death had sounded. A herald of the Seymours' had broken the news to the Queen, who had showed compassion and grief at the passing of her former enemy.

Nan sighed inwardly. It was a well known tale: how Jane Seymour, lusting after another man, had betrayed the king, who had shown great interest in her - enough interest to plan raising her to Anne's throne. How the King's love of Jane had turned into hate and rejection. How Anne had saved Jane from the King's rage; how the two of them, the most bitter of enemies, had overcome their strife.

The news of their peace had secretly spread everywhere, but never in the presence of the King, for Jane Seymour had been persona non grata at court ever since he had fallen out of love with her. Everyone knew the story, and the merciful manner in which Anne had dealt with her rival had improved her reputation even more.

Nan knew all the details, and she knew of the fondness the Queen had borne in her heart towards Jane, but she had not been able to hide her surprise when her Majesty had told her this morning of her desire to visit the church where Jane's body had been laid out. She had been determined to go, charging Nan to be quiet about it, and to tell no one where they would be going_. "A secret, Nan… nobody else need ever know," _she had whispered. Not even the King knew of this. He was holding an important conference at Windsor castle, and had not seen the Queen for three days. It was not known whether or not he had heard of Jane Seymour's passing.

A fever had finally claimed her life after long weeks of illness, or so the herald had told them. Although Nan did not hate the Seymour girl, she did not understand why it was so important to the Queen to go all the way from London to Wiltshire, and under these circumstances. It was not fit for a royal lady to do something like this. But, looking at the Queen's stern face, she dared not say anything.

And so they rode on, along the winding streets, through stretches of thick forest and across deserted fields. They passed but few people, mostly lonely wanderers and peasants on their way home. Seeing the royal standard and the men in their uniforms, they removed their caps and bowed low.

Anne was still looking out of the window. The sky was dark with moody clouds blocking the faint October sun from view. It was not a pleasant ride. Tearing her eyes away from the miserable sight, she glanced at her ladies. Under any other circumstances, she would have laughed at the faces of her maids, who were looking at her with a mixture of nervousness and barely hidden curiosity. But she was not in the mood for laughter.

_"Madam, the Lady Seymour sends me to inform your Majesty of the death of her beloved daughter Jane."_

Jane was dead. For some reason, it had hit her hard to hear of her passing, and she had decided to go to Wiltshire in order to say farewell. She knew that no one would understand, and so she had advised Nan and her guards to keep this visit secret. She had left it to Nan to inform Madge what was going on.

Henry himself would never know about it. Anne was still a little unsure whether he thought of Jane with hatred or not. Although all had been forgiven, she concluded that it was better if he did not know that she, his queen, was mourning a woman who had lost his favour only a couple of months ago.

They left a winding,sandy pathway, and the town of Marlborough came into view. It was a beautiful place, with its great market and more than one church, but they were heading for St. Mary's, a sacred house where, to Anne's distress, many Catholics still went to pray regularly. But that was another story. For now, it was simply the chapel were Jane's body had been laid out after her death.

Finally, they could see the chapel, a beautiful building made of grey and rain-washed stone. She had been here before, two or three times, when Court had moved from palace to palace, and she and Henry would stay at noble houses for the night. Once, they had visited this chapel together, and prayed before the altar. She remembered lying there on the cool marble, arms outstretched, beseeching God for help and protection. She was eager to cross the great hall again and marvel at its beauty – but she dreaded the sight of Jane's dead form that awaited her.

The carriage halted. Fortunately, Anne had warned the guards not to announce her loudly as Queen of England, and so they merely stopped in silence before the great western portal of the church, reigning in their horses. One of the young men dismounted his horse and came over to the coach. He opened the door and held his hand out to Anne. "My Queen," he bowed his head. She took the offered hand and descended the few steps. Turning to her ladies, she forced herself to smile. "Wait in the carriage. I shan't be long," she told them, before turning away from their incredulous faces.

Followed by three of the guards, even as the others remained behind to wait by the carriage, she walked across the pavement that led to the chapel's portal. She looked around, unwilling to be spotted by any curious strollers, but there was no one to be seen. A cool breeze stirred the fallen leaves on the pavement, making them dance in a swirling rhythm. Anne wrapped herself tightly in her beautiful, fur-lined coat, thankful for the long dark veil before her face that shielded her sensitive skin from the icy wind.

They reached the portal, and the guards knocked. During the ride, Anne had charged one of her them to ride on to the chapel and announce the Queen's visit to the warden but no one else. She was relieved when the heavy doors were opened quickly, revealing a young priest. "The Queen's Majesty wishes to mourn in this chapel," one of the guards spoke up, stepping aside to make way for Anne.

The priest bowed low before her as she entered the building. "Your Majesty. We're honoured to welcome you in this sacred house," he said in his deep, gentle voice.

Anne smiled. "Thank you, Father…?"

"Father James, your Grace."

He watched her curiously, taking in her striking appearance. He had seen her only once before, more than four years ago, at her coronation. He could not see much of her face, but her eyes, clever and cautious, seemed to be piercing him even through the dark material of her veil. She was clothed in a dark blue dress and a befitting mantle made of expensive velvet and fur. Her beringed hands were folded in her lap as she looked around to take in her surroundings.

She was regal, no doubt, and carried herself with great dignity. There was an air of absolute grandeur about her that drew him in. Her composure told of pride, perhaps even haughtiness, and yet, as she turned to him, telling him how beautiful she found this chapel, he thought that kindness and generosity also eluded from her. He remembered Jane's words on her deathbed, hailing this young woman, _"A more gentle queen was there never…"_

Who was Anne Boleyn, really? James mused. A gracious queen or an ambitious usurper? He was in no place to judge a crowned monarch, but still, he could not help wondering why she had come to this place where her enemy lay. Was it not Jane Seymour who should have been Queen instead of her? He did not know much of the outside world, and had no real knowledge of the events which had taken place over the last two years. His sole purpose in life was to be God's servant.

"Please wait for me here, and make sure that no one disturbs me." The Queen's voice pierced the silence, shaking him out of his reverie.

He nodded. "Majesty." The guards positioned themselves next to him, closing the great portal, ready to protect their Queen, who turned and walked away from them.

As she neared the great hall, Anne gazed up and beheld the beautiful design of gothic arches, frescoes carved in stone and marble figures lining the corridor. Then the hall opened before her, and she looked around, awe-stricken. This was a beautiful place, with its extravagant marble floors, stained-glass windows and tremendous chandeliers.

A small choir was singing in honour of the Queen's visit, the trained voices of great refinement ringing out to her ears.

_De profundis clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam fiant aures tuae intendentes, in vocem deprecationis meae._

She passed the great altar, gazing up at the building's high ceiling, aware of the presence of God. She crossed the nave in the direction of the south aisle, walking along the row of great columns that framed the hall.

Then, turning to the right and mounting a few marble steps that led to a small private section, she caught sight of a bier, upon which Jane Seymour's body had been laid out for all to see. Four great candleholders had been put up, holding a hundred lights burning in the dead woman's honour, to brighten the deep cool darkness of the chapel and frame her gentle face in a soothing, warm glow.

A faint breeze stroked Anne's bare hands as she approached the bier, making her shiver. The echo of her own steps disturbed the peaceful serenity with its thudding rhythm, overpowering the soft voices of the choir, the singing of death and repentance. Of God and resurrection.

_Convertere Domine, et eripe animam meam: salvum me fac propter misericordiam tuam._

Death was in the air, she recognized it clearly, the familiar, sweet smell of vanished life mingling with the odour of perfume and incense that had been sprayed to subdue the dreadful scent. And yet her feet walked as if by a will of their own, taking her closer and closer to the sight she had once desired more than anything else, and now only dreaded.

Finally, she reached the bier and halted in her step. Lowering her head, she lifted the long dark veil from her face. She stood there, motionless, looking down at the body of Jane clothed in virginal linen.

It was a lovely sight, despite the lack of all signs of life.

The waxen face was as sweet as it had been in life: pale of complexion, radiating a calm serenity, feminine and harmonious but for the slightly hooked nose. The thick lashes lay on her cheeks like two half moons, giving the beholder one last idea of what her eyes must have been like - those blue eyes that had enchanted a king and were now forever closed.

Her greatest jewel, the long golden hair, had been combed and arranged with care, surrounding her face in opulent curls, the ends hidden underneath the slim shoulders. Upon her breast, her trademark necklace with its diamond cross had been laid by gentle fingers, to rest there as a reminder of her piety. In her slender hands, the dead one held a single white lily. There was so content a look on her face that it seemed as if she was but sweetly sleeping.

Anne's gaze roamed down to the naked feet and back to the golden head, taking it all in with curious interest, and no hatred at all.

Here her rival lay, the one she had hated, fought and envied … dead and gone. The one she had despised with such cruel intensity it burned like a fire from within, poisoning her soul. She had done everything to bring her down, wielded all her powers to crush her life. Jane had been her sworn enemy, ever since that day she had caught Henry's eye at Wolfhall, and a second time, months after his accident… She had never spoken of her with anything but dislike and contempt.

But then… then, when everything had been on the edge, things had changed. When she, the Queen, had been in a most dangerous position, and Jane in jeopardy, they had come to a mutual understanding of each other. It was strange, unheard of, but God worked in mysterious ways, and sometimes even bitter rivals make peace. They had both experienced what it means to stand one's ground in a world of men, they had both loved and schemed, and, in the end, discovered that their paths were not all too different. Yes, time had changed them both, leaving them altered and grown. They had fought with all weapons and borne the consequences.

And yet, after all the anxiety and pain of the last months, Anne was still Queen, a woman in her prime, more powerful than ever before. She was the one standing alive and healthy in this chapel, beholding the body of the one who had striven to take her place and paid the price for it. For Jane had realized what all must learn who bath in the King's favour - that Henry's love was a burden, and to play with it was dangerous.

Her future had loomed brightly before her, a future on Anne's throne, but, when she had turned from the King to another man, the one she truly desired, Henry's cruelty hit her hard, changing forever the romantic picture she had created of him in her mind.

And it had been Anne, moved by pity, who had taken Jane's fate into her hands, preserving her, giving her a new life.

Two rivals had become allies, if not friends, or something similar - as impossible as it sounded. The Queen had seen a different side of this placid, calm girl, who was more than the eyes could see… and Jane, on the other hand, had realized that the queen she had hated was but a woman as every other, full of doubt, full of fear, capable of great kindness.

But then, just when Jane had found happiness, secure in the knowledge of the King's forgiveness and the Queen's protection, death in its bitter ferocity had taken away the light of her days, leaving her here in this sacred place, laid out for all to see. Here she would soon be put into a silent grave, to sleep for all eternity.

Anne's fingers grazed the fabric of Jane's white dress, wondering again how it had all come about: her friendship with this woman, whom she had hated so desperately before things had taken a strange turn. This unfair death was a symbol, a symbol for the harshness of life, the tricks and cruel jokes of fate. One could not trust in health and happiness. Life could be over in a minute, vanishing like a faint breeze over the ocean. Nothing was forever.

And so there was nothing but compassion in her heart as she stood next to the bier, next to death, next to the end of all things.

The choir's tone rose to a mystic hymn, touching Anne's heart.

_Deus meus, credo in te, spero in te, amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis._

Yes, to love God and trust in Him – that was the essence of human existence.

And in this rapt sensation, this sweet melancholy the music conveyed, it was to her as if from the darkness, she heard Jane's pleading voice again, edged with fear, muttering of her secrets and the King's resentment. She saw herself, there in the gloom, giving comfort to her own rival, promising to help her. She saw herself, bringing good news, a message from the King – the granting of his forgiveness.

"There, there…" she whispered into nothingness, smiling in spite of herself, remembering the words she had spoken to Jane on that fateful day. "All is well again."

She looked up from the woman's still form, up to the frescoes on the opposite wall and the giant oil painting of a consecrating Jesus. She crossed herself, speaking a short prayer, beseeching God in His infinite grace to have pity on the dead woman's soul. It was the last thing she could do for Jane.

Still the choir was singing, high and low voices lamenting the deceased, praising the Lord of Heaven, beseeching Him for mercy.

_Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto._

_Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum._

A sadness took hold of Anne, a grief that went deeper than the loss of a companion she had barely known, deeper than mourning – a general despair that threatened to pull her down, for she knew now, as never before, that life was not endless, and a human being's existence just a small light that could easily be quenched. It was in God she must trust, the almighty Keeper, who would one day open the gates of heaven to bid her in. She lifted her eyes to the picture of Jesus and felt some tranquil grace, some soothing calmness return to her body, giving her strength.

She turned around, and walked to the marble steps.

Before she moved to descend them, she looked back one last time at the slender body in its chaste attire, lifeless and beautiful. Jane Seymour's striking profile illuminated by candle light, the glow of her waxen skin, the wave of golden hair. She beheld once more the white lily resting there on white cloth, a pretty flower that would wither soon, just like Jane herself.

And as this sight was being branded into her memory forever, never to be forgotten, it was to her as if she could hear the faint response of Jane, a silver voice, a silent whisper from the dark.

_"Yes, all is well again… All is mended."_

The choir's lament died down as Anne left the south aisle behind. She walked across the nave, past the altar and to the oaken portal, where she halted before the young priest, who bowed low. "For the maintenance of your chapel," she said, pressing some coins into his hand.

Father James rose, kissing her hand and looking into her sparkling eyes. "Thank you, most gracious Highness. May God keep you." She had not yet draped the veil across her face, and now he could see its beauty which was far from classic. Heart-shaped features, perfectly formed nose and mouth, carefully plucked eyebrows, long thick hair as dark as the midnight sky. Expensive diamond earrings, a matching collier around her slender neck. She was enchanting.

The Queen nodded, and turned to leave as the guards opened the door for her, then halted abruptly in her step and looked Father James in the eye. "Tell those at Wolfhall… I, Queen Anne, mourn Jane's death… and offer them my sincere condolences." And thus she left him alone in the cool corridor.

As she walked out the door, the fresh English air breathed life into her tired limbs, and her steps became lighter. She gave her ladies a smile as she entered the coach, taking pleasure in the kind and gentle eyes they turned upon her.

For the rest of the ride back to Hampton Court, she sat in silence, wondering how it had all come about – how one day of jousting, nineteen months ago, had changed her life and the life of others forever, leading them to times of both happiness and sadness.

How, on the wings of fortune and her own strength, she had become the most powerful woman ever to have been Queen consort of England.


	3. Henry's changing emotions

**Chapter 1 : Henry's Changing Emotions**

**Greenwich Palace, January 1536**

* * *

In the middle of the night he woke with a start, his eyes wide open. He reached up to touch his brow, startling at the sweat running down his skin. Breathing heavily, he stared aimlessly into the darkness for a few minutes, before he collapsed back into the pillows and looked up at the bed's ceiling, thinking of the dream he'd just had.

He had dreamed of her, again.

It was always the same. Her serene and reproachful eyes would look at him with a silent plea, a simple request to love and respect her. She held her head high the entire time, every inch the Spanish princess. Every inch the forsaken queen.

These days he often rose in the morning after hours of dreaming of her, emotionally drained and completely exhausted. He would weak up in the looming dark at night like this, sweating like a pig, clutching the sheets like a foolish child. It was shameful, and he was glad that the servant sleeping next to his bed had not been woken and was still soundly asleep.

Henry sighed and turned his head to catch a glimpse of the midnight sky, luminous and sparkling as it greeted him from outside the large windows. It was a beautiful winter night, the stars shining with all their might, and yet it gave him no comfort.

There was not a noise to be heard – everything and everyone was sleeping peacefully in the king's realm. Everyone except the king himself.

His eyes wandered over the interior of his sleeping-room, the luxurious furniture and décor dozing in the dark like silent animals, watching him with invisible eyes. He had no fear of the dark, but as many before and after him, he noticed how strange and scary a room can appear to mortal eyes when nighttime fills the air.

He felt the sudden urge to get up, but he didn't. His mind was in too great a turmoil. Instead, he remained beneath the warm sheets and tried not to think of his recent dream, occupying his mind with thoughts of the events that would take place tomorrow on the tiltyard, and the people he would meet there.

The joust! Tomorrow was the day. The thought filled him with excitement and pleasure even in his current state of confusion. He had been waiting for tomorrow for so long. Once more he would show them all who was the best sportsman in the kingdom. He smiled confidently in the dark, knowing he was well prepared and would most likely win every round.

Normally, they would not have jousted during the cold winter months, but it was a mild January, not as cold as one would expect, with bearable temperatures and almost no wind. Looking at the beautiful night sky, Henry figured that the next day would be clear and sunny. The other week, he had decided that the tournament was to take place on January 24th, and now the event was close at hand. At last! He could not wait.

His recent sadness, caused by the Queen's still empty womb, and also, if not more, the death of Katherine, had shaken him to the core, leaving him with a desperate desire to forget, to leave it all behind, to be once more the young vivacious lord who had always had much joy and pleasure in fun and games.

He rejoiced at the thought of his former grandeur, the strength he had possessed in his youth. There had been no one then who stood a chance against him. From childhood on he had been trained and trimmed to become an athletic young man, and soon he had been known to be one of England's finest sportsmen. His remarkable skills in riding, jousting, tennis and other sports had always made him proud and confident. Only the pleasures of the flesh could ever compete with his love of exercise.

Yes, he had always been one of the best. So why should it be different now? It was not that he was an old man. He was in his prime! And yet, he could not shake off the nagging feeling of doubt that came over him out of the blue. What if he was not as fit as he used to be? What if … He frowned. What was wrong with him? He hardly ever doubted himself, for he had no reason to do so. He was the king of England, and if there was anything he could trust in, then it was his own body and the power it possessed. So why was it that he suddenly doubted his own abilities? He sighed again, turning restlessly in his massive bed. It must be the dream that was pulling him down and saddening him.

Unwillingly, the images returned to his mind.

Ever since her death, Katherine had showed up in his dreams on a regular basis. He was haunted by the memory of her tired face, looking incredulously at him when he told her that, as far as he was concerned, their marriage was at an end. Haunted by the tears forming in her eyes as she watched him turn away from her.

These memories mixed with absurd fantasies, until he could no longer distinguish between truth and lie, reality and madness. And always, always there was her voice in his head, ringing out to him so pleadingly that he thought his heart must break at the sound.

He thought of her last letter to him. He remembered the bitter tears he had shed upon reading it. He had realized then what she still meant to him, despite the fact that they had never truly been man and wife. In a way, he had never stopped loving her, not even after he had married Anne. And with her death, a part of him had died too.

Reading the letter, he had known her words to be true, just as he had on that fateful day when she spoke to him in Court. Even in death she had chosen her words with care, ever desirous to please and comfort him. But she had also made a silent statement, asking him to love their mutual daughter and advising him not to lose himself in earthly pleasures. But what touched him the most were those last words, those words he was doomed never to forget:

_"Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things."_

After everything he'd put her through, she still loved him. She still cared for him and wanted to see him. He did not think she had written it just to flatter him. Katherine was not a cunning woman, especially not at the hour of death. No, she had meant it, and it affected him deeply that she still bore so much love towards him, despite the sadness and grief he had caused her.

In one of his few moments of genuine self-criticism, he had realized that he had wronged her. Wronged her in a way that could never be undone. Of course he never doubted that she was not his rightful wife – they should never have married in the first place. But he could have been nicer to her, treated her with more kindness. He had not even allowed her to see Mary, knowing full well that she loved the child more than her own life. No, he had not loved and respected her as he should have, and the thought pained him.

And now she was haunting him in his sleep. Maybe this was Katherine's revenge. Maybe this was her way of punishing him for his unfairness. Perhaps she would never stop before he made things right.

But how could he? There was no way of reinstating Mary as his lawful daughter, for she simply wasn't. Her illegitimacy was a fact. Currently, he had only one trueborn child, Elizabeth, and he had no intention to change that. Mary was her mother's daughter, and although he had not seen her for quite some time, he was sure she was as clever and stubborn as Katherine. As long as she did not submit to him, his hands were tied.

Then how on earth how could he appease Katherine, so that she would leave him alone? His mind was working hard. Perhaps he should visit Mary. She was still his daughter, after all, despite her illegitimacy. He could make it all up to her. He liked the idea of talking to her again. She had always been witty. The pearl of his world.

He almost smiled into the darkness, but then his smile faded as an unpleasant thought came to his mind.

Anne would never have it. She hated Mary with a passion, just as she had hated Katherine. She would accuse him of putting Mary above their child, of supporting a girl who did not accept her as Queen.

A sudden anger flooded him at the thought of Anne. Who did she think she was? He had told her before, she was his wife, not his minister. But she would not listen. Of course not. God damn her.

Was she not the initial reason for all his pain? She had seduced him and poisoned his mind with her wretched ideas of sending Katherine far away. It was her fault. She had even managed to turn his formerly good opinion of Mary, his own daughter, into suspicion and distrust.

It was no secret that his passion for his wife had cooled measurably. She did not stir in him the emotions she once did – for the old days were gone. These days, he did not crave the same things he did then: a life by her side, to be in her presence every waking minute. He had reached a point were he could not go on like this anymore. He wanted a change, and somehow there seemed to be no place for her in the future he envisioned for himself.

She stood between him and everything.

In his mind he could see her: long dark hair, her face so jarringly beautiful, the slender but curvaceous body. Desirable and enchanting, undeniably – but she had disappointed him.

Once, he had loved her completely, deeply, with all of his heart; like a madman he had lusted after her and at times would have sacrificed his kingdom for an hour in her arms. For years he had been her slave – but now he was free of her hold on him. He did not like to think of her anymore, nor did he love her as much as before, and if she ever came to his mind or haunted his dreams these days, it was in his darkest nightmares.

Their estrangement had already begun.

He could not pinpoint the exact date it had started. It had been a slow but steady development, a change of attitude that had increased over time.

_Anne Boleyn_, he thought bitterly. Maybe it was true what people had always told him, that she was indeed his great folly. A dramatic folly, to be sure. He was unable to dig up the old feelings of passion she used to made him feel, to free them from the layers of emotional dust that had settled there over the last few months. Somehow his love for her had slowly turned into – yes, what was it, anyway?

All the traits of her character he had once admired – her forwardness, pride and quick wit – now bothered him more and more. Whenever she opened her mouth to address him, him, the king of England, she would do nothing but accuse him of everything that was not to her liking, throw insults at him or try to manipulate him with her little schemes and stories.

Who the hell was she to tell him what to do?

He alone was responsible for her magnificent career, he alone had made her a marchioness, a king's wife, a queen. He had given her the world, torn his country apart, and yet she had never had enough. He had given her all he could offer, and she had failed to give him what he desired most in the world.

_"When we are married, I will deliver you a son!"_

She had promised. And he had given it all to her, everything. More than any woman could ever ask for. But she had not kept her promise. Instead of fulfilling her duty as his queen, she had spent her days dancing, singing, feasting. She had lived like an Empress, done as she pleased, spoken her mind, and all the while, he was now ultimately sure, she had never truly cared for his feelings. If she truly loved him, as always claimed, then why, oh why had she not given him a son yet? A son to be the living image of his father, the future king of England. A prince of Tudor blood.

It was obvious to Henry that God was finally showing him what a mistake he had made by marrying Anne. She had not turned out to be the magnificent and gracious mother of his son he had always envisioned her to become. She had promised and told him so many things, and yet, looking back, he found that she had not lived up to his expectations.

Was she a queen of goodliness and mercy, a wife conform to the inclinations of a king? Certainly not. How often had he watched her walk the vast gardens of the palace with her brother and father, a malicious smile on each of their faces? Too many times had he seen that proud look in Anne's eyes – magnificent eyes, to be sure, enrapturing… _No!_ He must not think of her eyes.

He had never been entirely fooled by her games. He had seen that smug smile of hers come to her lips whenever she talked to someone she hated … the way her eyebrows shot up in that haughty way whenever something was not to her liking… there were so many things he had noticed and not approved of. Oh yes, he had seen it all and ignored it because he had loved her.

But that was a time gone by – everything was changed now. He could see the vanity and conceit in her eyes and it bothered him, bothered him to no end.

It was not that he did not remember that, once, nothing on earth could have come between them. A tiny part of his treacherous heart still clung to the great love that had existed between them, the heady rush of feelings and the all-consuming, passionate desire they had felt every time their eyes met. The endless rapture that had surged through him whenever he touched her soft white skin. He had desired her so much. But maybe it had been just that – mere desire? It must be. She had enraptured him with her charms and constant scheming. The thought that a woman should be able to turn his head around like that and hold him prisoner for a decade would have disturbed him under other circumstances – but right now he needed to prove to himself that it was all her fault, her fault alone, and not his. He was the king of England, for God's sake. It was not his fault that his love for her had died, that she had not given him a son – he was everything. He was the king. And his queen had failed him.

Whenever he looked at her these days, he no longer saw the passionate girl he had loved, but a greedy and manipulative woman who had lost all sense of control. She was a schemer, and a masterful one to be sure. He had risked everything for a manipulator. A beautiful liar.

The outcome of their long struggle was not at all what he had envisioned for so many years. They had a daughter who was nothing but a bastard in the eyes of many in England and abroad, their love was weaker than ever, and they had no son. He could not accept this. No matter how much he loved Elizabeth, he needed a son. A son to take his place when his time was due.

But would Anne still give birth to a boy? Was she even capable of bearing one? Truth be told, he had no desire to find out. The thought of her body did not fascinate him as much as it used to, nor did her charms appeal to him in any way, no matter how beautiful she was.

There was someone though, who did appeal to him. Greatly. He smiled a smile of pure affection as he thought of her. His limbs relaxed and he sank deeper into the pillows, allowing his mind to wander. Anne's mischievous face faded away.

An angel took her place in his mind's eye, a sweet woman in a long, white dress adorned with silver gems. Only the sun could outshine her. His beautiful Jane. She was the milk of human kindness. If no one else could give him peace, she could.

Prior to their first meeting, he had not known that such purity and sweetness still existed in this world of malice and intrigue. In the rotten cosmos of the English court she seemed to him like an angel, a woman untouched by vanity and pride. It was a miracle to him that a female could be so warm and tender, so innocent and gentle. After all these years of killing, worrying and fighting, he had finally found something steadfast and good, a solid rock in the sea, a true comfort. He could never let her go, would not let her go. She loved him, he was sure of it. It was a miracle to him to have found a woman who bore towards him such perfect love. And he loved her in return. Oh God, how he loved her. He loved her a thousand times more than he had ever loved Anne. How his heart would rejoice on every occasion allowing him to speak with her and hear her voice, or just to admire her from a distance... He had to possess her utterly.

And yet, in a way, his need for her was unlike the need he had felt for other women in the past. He did not desire her the way he had once desired Anne, or others at court: roughly and sensually, his great appetite for the pleasures of the flesh obliterating everything else. He did not pursue her with the fierceness that was so typical for him – indeed, all was different with Jane. He did not see her as a mere body, as prey to be hunted and succumbed. Instead, he felt the need to treat her with nothing but kindness and respect.

Jane drew him in because she was so very different from Anne and all the other ladies with their undying ambition and selfish pride, quick on their feet to fulfil their own desires, uncaring for the feelings of others. She was not like that. He saw in her something pure and innocent, a truly good-natured soul. Ah, she was beautiful, very much indeed. He had always had a passion for blondes, and she was an English rose if there ever was one.

He had reached a point where he wanted to be with someone who would give him the peace and harmony he desired, and he did not think Anne capable of doing that. She was too proud, too harsh to make a proper wife, and too ambitious to ever be a humble consort. But Jane had those qualities he was looking for: kindness, honour and obedience.

Yes, Jane Seymour was all that was good and noble, and he longed for her with an intensity and a completeness he alone was capable of. He needed to be with her, have her, love her the way she deserved to be loved. And he would. Somehow, he would find a way to be with her, no matter the consequences.

Once he set his eyes upon something he really wanted, he could never let it slip through his fingers, and this woman really meant something to him.

In his heart, though, he still refrained from replacing Anne. She was an anointed queen and mother to his child. He had always been a sentimental man, and even in his lust for Jane he still remembered that Anne had once been his one true love, his soulmate even.

He yawned, too tired to think about it any longer. It made no sense to burden himself with such thoughts in the middle of the night.

Thankfully, his confidence returned to him even as fatigue closed his lids. Somehow, he would find a way. He was the king of England, after all.

He drifted into sleep with a sigh, and this time no dreams plagued him. For once, Katherine left him in peace.


	4. Into the Thames

**Chapter 2 : Into the Thames**

* * *

Anne the Queen walked nervously around her luxurious lodgings at Greenwich palace, an anxious expression on her face.

She was nervous and uneasy, and had already let it out on her ladies-in-waiting.

She did not mean to be cross, nor to raise her voice when she was with them, but there was so much pent-up anxiety and rage inside of her, she needed to scream at somebody. And in the privacy of her lodgings, now that most people were attending the great joust, there was no one available to be yelled at but her poor maids.

Although their heads were dutifully bent over their sewing, she knew they were watching her alertly, with fearful eyes, and had she not been a queen, she would have apologized to them. They were probably cursing her for her hideous mood swings and for the fact that serving her was keeping them away from the joust.

_The joust!_

She could hear it no longer. Henry was obsessed with it, and apparently everyone else shared his excitement or at least pretended to do so.

As much as she tried, Anne was unable to develop a fondness for that sport. Although she loved to ride, she had never been interested in jousting, and had attended but few tournaments in her life.

What was so fascinating about it, anyway? To her, it was nothing but a waste of blood and good men, for the riders got hurt regularly and some even came to death. Idealistic as she was, she saw nothing noble, nothing reasonable in it, and she could not fake an interest in something she detested. No, she was not one to sit idly upon a throne, applauding megalomaniac men on their mission to lance others, as Katherine used to. She had better things in mind.

She was jerked out of her reverie when one of the maids approached her. "The King is here, my lady," she said and retreated quickly.

Anne looked up and saw Henry march into the room, his head held high. He was handsome in a simple yet elegant attire, the black riding boots reaching up to his knees. She smiled fondly at him, but her smile faded as she noticed the disinterest in his eyes.

"Queen Anne," he stated flatly and bowed low, stretching out his arms in that singular fashion of his as he did so. She curtsied lightly in return.

"I'm on progress. Will you accompany me to the tournament?" He asked.

She thought she saw hope in his eyes - not that she would go with him, but hope that she would stay behind and leave him to his own devices. He didn't want her with him, she knew it, and it pained her. Why must he be this way? So reproaching... so careless. He was going to pursue that whore of his, Jane Seymour, and it enraged Anne to no end.

But she wouldn't be humbled by applauding him at the tournament while his piercing eyes were following another. Not she.

She raised one of her slanting brows, regarding him coolly.

"I'm afraid I've got a headache, your Majesty." She stroked her temples and faked a yawn, as if a great fatigue had suddenly taken hold of her. "Just go without me."

Henry's shoulders relaxed visibly. He forced a smile to his lips. "As you wish."

She beheld his lips for a moment, full and sensual... Annoyingly, she was unable to quench the feeling of longing and tenderness overcoming her at the sight of this pretty mouth she had kissed so often.

"I wish you good conduct, my love," she said, and, in an attempt to lighten the obviously sour mood between them, stepped closer to him and pressed a short kiss to his rough cheek.

He stiffened, looking at her in surprise, but there was no emotion, no feeling in his gaze as he accepted the kiss, and Anne closed her eyes in frustration.

"My Queen," he said evenly, bowing once more. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and she saw it all in those aqua blue depths – his changing emotions, the lack of love in his heart, the disappointment and animosity she had been subjected to for months now.

And before she could say anything else, he turned around, leaving her alone with her maids, never looking back as he walked out the door.

Anne sighed bitterly as she watched him leave, unable to do anything to stop him. She knew his thoughts were elsewhere, with the joust and the excitement events like that always brought him – for he was a man of boyish whims and childish fancies. She sensed his impatience. He was eager to show off his skills, his ability to surpass all others. After all, he was nothing if not a man with a plan, and had he not been the king himself, he would surely have been the most ambitious of all courtiers.

A bitter smile came to her lips as he thought of him, standing motionlessly in the middle of the large room. Sometimes he truly reminded her of a little boy, a child craving for the moon - swift on his feet to fulfil his own desires, hardly paying regard to the loss and despair of others as long as he was satisfied.

He was master of this headless game of love and lust and destruction, secure in the knowledge of his absolute power, while to all participants, he presented an immense danger. Fair play was rare with Henry Tudor.

Many times she had played along, for she too was a lover of life, and in him she had thought to have found a partner, a friend, a perfect match. How often would they bicker like children and afterwards make up with a passion only the very young are capable of. She used to play with him everywhere – at court, in letters, in bed.

But somehow, she did not know how, in the course of their relationship she had lost her playful mood, and tension and fear had taken its place. She no longer felt the desire to play games like a girl – she was a woman. A woman in a dangerous position, lacking both the patience to endure silently, as Katherine had done, and the ease to fake a smile and pretend to be jolly, when in truth her heart was in turmoil.

Those carefree days were gone, the years of princely pleasures, living without a care in the world. Times had changed and so had she, there was no doubt.

Slouching her shoulders, she went over to one of the large windows to take a look at the beautiful gardens outside, not heeding the pitiful stares of her ladies.

Remembering happier times with Henry always left her tired and exhausted. It was bitter and sad to reconcile with the thought that nothing was as it used to be, and she sorely missed the days when their love was at its peak.

How grand those times had been! Laughter and dances, so many dances, dining and walking together - he had loved her then, wholly and completely.

Would that she had never let go of that happiness! Ah, the beauty and charm of times gone by, the golden warmth and security of those days.

Nothing was left of that life which seemed to her now like a faraway dream. Few things had turned out the way she had expected, and now she was stuck in a helpless situation that threatened to drive her mad.

_Oh God, give me a child. A child to fill my empty womb._

The conception of a male child was the only thing that would change Henry's mind , she was sure. And she could do it. She could give him the son he desired, if only he gave her more time. If only he came to see what they still meant to each other. Surely he must know that she too was heartbroken over the lack of a child in her belly. Her desperate hope of conceiving a child from their last intercourse that fateful night (-Had there ever been greater pleasure?) was finally crushed when her monthly period had returned. Upon seeing the blood, she had cried bitter tears of fear and disappointment.

Sometimes she hated herself. She was constantly sad, always in a temper and unable to control her emotions. Every day was torture, for she did not know what the future held in store for her.

And there was something else, or rather someone, she feared even more than her own discomfort – someone she could not control. There was someone at court, in her own chambers even, whose presence was a threat to her inner peace and set her atremble with rage every time their paths crossed.

Anne almost smiled. How odd that someone of so little relevance, so meek, so humble, should have the power to frighten her, the Queen of England – but the face of Jane Seymour was haunting her like a ghost. No words could say how much she loathed that woman. The way she carried herself, seemingly modest, that timid voice of hers ringing out like silver bells, pleasant to everyone's ears but Anne's, the large blue eyes, the sweet smile.

Yes, she feared Jane, for she had the support of a powerful family, a great ambition carefully hidden beneath the sweetness of her face, and she had caught the eye of the King. A king who never made a secret of the fact that he loved and lusted after women, and who had already gotten rid of a crowned queen in favour of another woman.

Anne would have loved to get that wench out of the way for good, but deep down she felt it would anger the King. This was not about some random mistress, like Eleanor Luke, who had been used and discarded by Henry in a quick and careless fashion.

This was serious.

Henry was obviously taken with that girl, and after many hours of thinking, Anne had come to a frustrating conclusion: her husband was showing a disturbing interest in a woman who was the opposite of his current wife in every way.

Where Anne was forward, Jane was shy, where Anne was passionate, Jane was calm and obedient, or at least pretended to be. Her looks and manners must seem angelic in comparison to the sharp tongue and boldness of the Queen.

She knew exactly what Jane was doing, and it startled her. It reminded her too much of her own rise to the detriment of a queen. She knew that her own example of rising from a mere courtier's daughter to a monarch would encourage every girl to try her luck and do the same. She was also well aware that Jane, like herself, had been carefully placed as Henry's temptation by her brother and father, but that was no real excuse on the girl's behalf.

As always, the thought of Henry's disloyalty made her angry, and a sudden pain clutched at her heart. She walked over to the large bed and lay down, drawing the curtains to hide herself from the other women in the room. She stared up at the ceiling as she thought of her husband. It was confusing and shocking that because of his actions, she found herself in the same predicament as Katherine years ago – the fear of loosing the one you love, of being powerless although you were a queen. Yes, finally she understood the pain of her predecessor, and she did not like the thought of being replaced. She did not like it one bit.

Tormented by her thoughts of Henry and the predicament she was in, she looked for something to divert herself with. An idea came to her mind, and leaning over she reached for a box she kept hidden beneath the bed. She opened the lid and smiled ruefully. It contained some love letters Henry had written to her long ago, tokens of his affection, and a locket he had once given to her – a locket with his portrait in it. She opened it and looked at his proud features, the dark hair and those unforgettable eyes. He was still the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on, the handsomest prince of Christendom, and in all the years she had known him, she had never met a man who could compete with him in the slightest. After everything he had put her through, he was still the sole object of her affection, the poison in her blood, the sickness of her soul. She was unable to let go of this dangerous love in her heart, no matter how hard she tried.

How was it that she still cared for him, after all the pain he'd made her feel? She had observed in silent rage as he took others to his bed, giving them the love and pleasure that should be reserved for her alone. She had watched as his passion for her had turned into indifference. She had born it all in silent rage, but love still bound her to him.

Her eyes fell on the letters. She had not read these in a long time. She reached out to retrieve one of them from the box. Anne unfolded the letter carefully, taking in Henry's familiar handwriting. The letter was dated 5 September 1528.

_"Mine own sweetheart,"_

The endearment brought a bitter smile to her lips. When had he last called her his sweetheart? It seemed like a lifetime.

_"These shall be to advertise you of the great loneliness that I find here since your departing, for I ensure you methinketh the time longer since your departing now last than I was wont to do a whole fortnight: I think your kindness and my fervents of love causeth it, for otherwise I would not have thought it possible that for so little a while it should have grieved me, but now that I am coming toward you methinketh my pains been half released. _

_No more to you at this present mine own darling for lack of time, but that I would you were in my arms or I in yours for I think it long since I kissed you. By the hand of him which I trust shortly shall be yours._

_Henry R."_

She snorted angrily, her sorrow turning into rage. What a hypocrite he was. His own sweetheart? He claimed she did not keep her promises, but what about him? He was a liar.

_"I would only be unhappy if you ever stopped loving me..."_

_"London would have to melt into the Thames first."_

The man who had made her this promise did not seem to exist any more. He had told her he would love her forever and, foolishly, she had believed him.

_I guess London melted, _she thought bitterly.

Henry did not love her anymore, she could see it in his eyes. His eyes were following another woman now. Violently, her thoughts returned to the present. The idea of him watching out for that _bitch_ of his at this very moment hurt her, and the knowledge that he was favouring that little ninny stung.

How could he have forgotten what they had been to each other… after everything they were? It broke her heart to see him love others.

Yes, it hurt deeply, thoroughly, but still she would not go to the tournament and show up as his dutiful wife. She felt awkward and insecure, and the last thing she needed was everyone looking at her, the estranged queen, as her husband pursued another woman. She would not humiliate herself.

The King and his men were probably arriving at the tournament right now, which would begin soon. Many of the nobles at court would show up, hundreds of people assembled there to watch the spectacle. What fools.

Or were they not?

Getting up from the bed and pacing her chambers like a caged animal, ignoring the occasional stares of her maids, she wondered feverishly if her decision not to attend the tournament with Henry had been the right one. Everyone was eager to make an appearance there, for there was no better time or place to gossip in silence, as the rivals competed against each other on the tilt yard.

For the audience, jousting was more than just sport. It was a chance to meet friends or show off a pregnancy, to make a dashing appearance or leave a lasting impression. Women would share their secrets, men would yell loudly and exchange hostile glances with their enemies. As the horses on the yard fell into a fast gallop, people would stick their heads together and share the latest news. Undoubtedly, they would talk about her, and those with sharp eyes would surely see that there was a new blonde-haired threat to the Queen's already weak position.

Anne stopped walking and turned around to face her ladies.

"Nan," she said suddenly, "when will the jousting begin?"

Her favourite maid immediately stopped her sewing and looked up. "I'm not sure, madam. Around ten o'clock, I guess."

Anne nodded, feeling the urgent need to talk to Nan in private, but there was no time. She had to make a quick decision.

Half an hour left until the first riders would set out, an hour to get ready and ride to the tournament, which was taking place a few yards away from the palace.

Would it be wise to go there? She was not interested in Henry's sports, but she could not give Jane Seymour the advantage of talking to him within sight of the most important members at court. Maybe she should make an appearance to let everyone one know that she was still Queen, healthy and strong, as beautiful and dashing as ever before. They must not think she would ever make way for another female.

And then, as the image of Henry and Jane together flooded her mind once more, her lips became a tight line, and she ordered harshly: "Lady Shelton! Go and let the officials know that their Queen means to attend the joust. The grooms must make ready and prepare our horses. Be quick. You and the others will come with me."

Madge obeyed and left the room, and Anne watched impatiently as the other ladies got up to take the necessary precautions.

They did not know what had changed her Majesty's mind, but the Queen was obviously in a sour mood and it was better to work quickly.

Half an hour later, Anne took one final look into the mirror, regarding herself with critical eyes.

She was wearing a dark blue dress embroidered in silver, with tight arms and a low but tasteful neckline. Her hair was cascading down her back in long curls, crowned by a magnificent tiara sparkling with the intensity of the stars, and setting off the unconventtional beauty of her face to perfection. From her many jewels she had chosen a silver collier with teardrop stones and similar earrings.

She made a beautiful picture, dark and alluring, quite the opposite of all the English roses who would be turning on the charm at the tournament. Was she not still the same Anne Boleyn, the famous seducer? She was different from other females in every way, and she gloried in it.

She would excel them all.

Taking a deep breath, Anne gathered herself and straightened her back. She could do it. She mustn't be afraid.

Her physical appearance gave her strength, giving her something to rely on. It soothed her troubled mind. No one would know of her distress and fatigue.

She spoke her motto aloud, the familiar words of confidence and self-assuredness: "Let them grumble – this is how it's going to be", before she turned on her heels and walked out of her chambers with that significant stride of hers.

There was a challenge ahead, and Anne Boleyn was never one to give up without a fight.


	5. Downfall

**"_The accident occurred at a tournament at Greenwich Palace on 24 January 1536 when Henry, in full armour, was thrown from his horse, itself armoured, which then fell on top of him. He was unconscious for two hours and was thought at first to have been fatally injured. But, although he recovered, the incident, which ended his jousting career, aggravated serious leg problems which plagued him for the rest of his life (…)"_**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Downfall**

* * *

It was a bright day, a merry day, and everyone was in a good mood. The sound of hundreds of excited voices filled the air, mingling with the neighing of horses and the occasional calling of trumpets.

For a day in January, the weather was mild, making it more bearable to sit on the cold, hard benches of the tribune. The ladies and lords, all dressed up, jostled humorously for the best seats, laughing and joking as they greeted friends and family members.

They were easy, the rules of courtly conduct:_ Smile, nod, smile. Pay compliments. Never be the one you really are._ Everyone knew the polite wishes and friendly smiles for what they were, but that did not stop anyone from applying them just the same. It was an exciting and unpredictable dance, regulated by unwritten rules, and only those who knew the steps by heart would manage to survive at court.

Even those who inwardly objected to this game of flattery and false friendship, had no choice but to comply and participate. "Fun and games" was the order of the day, for his Majesty loved merry-making and laughter from many throats.

And, no matter what, the King's desire must never be ignored.

Henry's will was their command, his happiness their obligation. They were like bees in a hive, anxious to satisfy their queen; like orbs in the vastness of the universe orbiting one major heavenly body. Henry was that queen of all bees, that one luminary. He was the Sun.

Therefore, naturally, there was no other topic of conversation among the courtiers but the King and his concerns.

Women all over the place put their heads together in secret, sharing the latest gossip.

"Did you not know? The King is in love! And certainly not with the Queen!" said one, laughing jeeringly at her own words.

"Indeed, Joan, I have it on very good authority that… " began another, her voice drifting off into a faint whisper. Her lips moving rapidly, she threw a suspicious at Thomas Boleyn and his son, a little anxious they might hear her.

They looked haughty and proud as always in their dark clothes, adorned by jewels, black velvet caps sitting pertly on their heads. Keen and alert as bloodhounds they seemed to be, their eyes so startlingly blue, so icy cold. Something about them was threatening, dangerous. It could certainly do no good to defy them…

As she continued to whisper into her friend's ear what she thought of a certain blonde lady-in-waiting, the woman's eyes wandered. Only a few seats away, another prominent family was seated - calm and composed, harmless at first glance, lacking the bold arrogance of the Boleyns.

John Seymour was a comely man, tall and plump, with small friendly eyes and a gentle countenance. He was dressed in the best clothes available, and yet he would never have the elegance of men like Thomas Boleyn. Nevertheless, he was a popular and well-known courtier, and those who knew him had an idea of what he was truly capable of, for behind his gentle face lay an iron will. He possessed both kindness and a craving for power. Next to him, sitting stiffly, was his son Edward, a handsome young man with a gentle smile, too gentle – for every trained courtier could sense that he was vain, cunning and ambitious.

The Seymours played their part well, clapping their hands, smiling broadly, laughing heartily, paying compliments and enjoying themselves, and no one missed any of their gestures. Many had noticed, too, John's pretty daughter Jane, who had come to Court at the order of the King.

The Boleyns and the Seymours - two families of great noblesse, well-known and respected, yet ever dependant on the will and favour of one man – Henry. Who of them would emerge the victor? The Boleyns had already come to power and wealth due to Queen Anne's magnificent rise, and the Seymours had similar interests. Everyone knew that.

It all depended on Henry, for his affection guaranteed both money and great renown. At the same time, they knew how much the loss of his love might cost.

The woman frowned, unable to decide which of the two families would have the upper hand in the end. For a while, though, all her thoughts were pushed aside when the trumpets boomed powerfully, and the spokesman announced the first round.

"The Duke of Suffolk has entered the list and will now joust with the Earl of Rochester!"

It was all or nothing! Charles Brandon was ready for his first effort on this day of tournament. The crowd cheered as he rode by and bowed elegantly to his wife, Catherine. "For you, my lady!" he shouted.

The trumpets sounded again, and the jousting began.

As the two lords set off, Catherine Brandon leaned in to Jane Rochford, née Parker, sister-in-law to the Queen, and said sweetly: "Is her Majesty not attending tournament today?"

"No. This morning, when the King came to her chambers, she felt ill and asked for his permission to stay in her chambers."

Catherine nodded, her lips pursed delicately. She watched her husband as he galloped across the tiltyard. Like herself, Charles hated the usurper Queen and would surely be happy not to see her today.

"Personally," Lady Rochford continued, "I can't bring myself to miss her."

Her smile was sweet, but there was an underlying maliciousness to it, one that was not lost on a trained courtier like Catherine, and she smiled back. Here was another one who had no affection for the Boleyn whore.

She clapped her hands excitedly as her husband won the first round.

* * *

Meanwhile, Henry was standing in his great pavilion, where his servants were putting his armour on him.

He could hear the excited lot of voices outside, the high-pitched giggles and cheering screams, causing him to shiver with anticipation. He was impatient to go out there and take the lance in his hand, to ride swiftly and break his opponent's shield.

It had always been like this – he was a man of sports. The thrill, the fun, the hysteria; it spurred him on and fascinated him. Ever since his childhood days he had loved physical exercise and revelled in it, and this had never changed.

And now he was eager, so very eager, to prove to himself and the world that he was still the young king no other man could conquer.

"Hurry, you fools!" he told the servants, stretching out his arms demandingly. He groaned a little at the heaviness of the armour, but, after a few seconds, his body began to adjust to the additional weight.

Finally, he was ready to go and left the pavilion, still putting on his gloves. Taking in his surroundings, he smiled. Here he was just Henry, free of the duties of a monarch, just a man with a plan.

Breathing in the fresh air, he looked up at the pale blue sky and blinked against the bright light of the sun. It was such a beautiful day, so full of promises.

_And nothing on earth shall spoil it,_ he thought to himself. _Nothing on earth. _

He stepped forward, and then halted abruptly as he caught side of no other but _her._

She was beautiful in a turquoise dress and mantle, charming and sweet, the image of female softness. Her golden hair surrounded her angelic features like a golden veil and fell onto her shoulders in long, shiny waves.

He looked at her hungrily, knowing she had not yet noticed him, taking in the slender body and exquisite profile with the slightly prominent nose. She was perfect in a way no other woman could ever be, radiating from within.

"Lady Jane," he said silkily, like it was a caress.

She turned around and startled, then bowed low before him. "Your Majesty."

Her voice was like silver bells, clear and fragile, awakening in him something tender, reminding him of his original love for women like her – the modest and good-hearted, calm and dignified in manners and speech.

Looking into her eyes, he knew he had to have her.

She was so dear, so serene in her blue gown, a cross dangling from her neck as a reminder of her piety. Her delicate beauty enchanted him. He liked to think of her as a woman untouched by the scorn and derision of the world, and in her sweet face he read nothing but goodliness and pure affection. She was the milk of human kindness.

But there was something else that made Jane so attractive to him – the obvious demureness she wore, the obedience and respect she always paid him, so unlike the woman on the throne, for whom he had sacrificed all. In his growing aversion for Anne, this gentile lady seemed to possess everything his own wife lacked: stability, goodness, charm and grace in everything she did - and a humble submissiveness, a natural humility due to the status of a noble female.

How he longed for her! How he craved to be with someone like her, a gentle, pliable female, kind at heart and full of admiration for him and his deeds. Here now was a new temptation, the lure of a woman who would obey him in all things. She would never torture him and keep him at a distance the way Anne had done when he first pursued her. She respected him too much.

He smiled at her, shaking himself out of his reverie. He sensed her uneasiness as she stood there watching him alertly. An idea came to him, and his smile widened. He'd do it. He'd ask her to give him her favours. No doubt, with such a blessed gift hidden beneath his armour, he would win every round.

"I'm about to go in joust," he began, looking at her beautiful face. "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to wear- "

He was interrupted by a sudden uproar of noise. Trumpets sounded, mingling with the trampling of many hooves.

He whirled around, angered by the unwelcome interruption. How dare they spoil this perfect moment between him and his jewel?

The trumpets sounded again, and the voice of a spokesman rose above all others.

"THE QUEEN!"

From where he stood, Henry could see a group of riders approaching. He spotted about ten members of the royal guard in their typical red uniforms. Two men rode ahead of the others, one of them carrying the royal banner, the other one a yellow flag with the initials of England's highest couple – H and A.

Behind them followed the ladies in waiting in elegant riding habits. It was the Queen's entourage, there was no doubt. _Anne!_ He was too surprised to be angry any longer. What was she doing here? Had she not insisted that she was ill?

"Her Majesty Queen Anne approaches!"

He could see her now, riding forward as her ladies made way for her, directing their horses to the side. She was sitting elegantly on her brown mare, her gloved hands holding the reins tightly. She seemed to be looking for someone – him. For a fleeting second, he saw her mouth twitch as she beheld him standing next to Jane Seymour, but the pained expression was quickly replaced by an aloof mask. Anne looked away.

Meanwhile, the tournament had been stopped, and people observed the Queen and her entourage in surprise. The grooms and strollers near Anne curtsied and bowed quickly, while the others, on the tribune and around the tilt yard, were glancing in her direction, alarmed by the sudden commotion.

The horses neighed as the riders reigned them in, halting only a few feet away from the royal pavilion. The trumpets boomed loudly once more, and a guard ran to the Queen to help her down. Henry watched as she descended gracefully from her horse and, after giving the guard a short nod, inclined her head towards the people bowing in her direction.

He could feel her eyes on him, he could feel them boring into his skin, and, slowly, he raised his own to meet her penetrating stare. Aversion filled him to the brim once more as he thought of how she had destroyed his perfect moment with Jane.

But as he looked up to greet her coolly, he stopped abruptly. As she walked towards him, he was struck by her powerful appearance.

The simple yet elegant dress she was wearing, cut in the French fashion, artfully accentuated her slender but curvaceous body. Her long hair was flowing freely over her shapely shoulders, its darkness in harsh contrast to the glittering brightness of the tiara on her head and the paleness of her smooth, white skin.

She was beautiful.

He stood mesmerized, his eyes flashing, seeing her truly for the first time in months. Her familiar, bold way of walking and holding her head up high made him smile inwardly. She truly was a queen. Everything about her was regal, from the sparkling crown on her head, to the look on her face and the way she carried herself.

A smile was on her lips as she watched him study her, and he didn't look away. He couldn't. This was the old Anne he used to know – fierce, fearless, fabulous.

Beholding her elegance and beauty with keen, eager eyes, he momentarily forgot the woman beside him, concentrating on Anne alone. After all, how could anyone spare a glance for any other woman when _she _was there to be appraised? She was like a blow, a strong wind, catching him off guard and sweeping him along.

Before he knew why or how, he bowed to her as best as he could in his heavy armour, stretching out his arms and lowering his head to greet her as his Queen.

He remained in this position, watching her feet come closer and closer. He heard the faint rising and falling of voices all around, and was reminded of how singular this incident must appear to the onlookers – their King taking a deep bow, greeting his estranged wife with the utmost respect, while the object of his desire was standing just a few inches away.

By now, Anne had reached the spot where he and Jane were standing, and he straightened himself to welcome her.

"My Lady," he said, almost gently, his eyes roaming her body and face appreciatively.

"Majesty." She curtsied elegantly, holding out her hand to him as she rose.

Taking it, he pressed a light kiss on it, his lips lingering on the soft flesh a little longer than necessary.

Anne noticed it and smiled seductively, but Henry couldn't help feeling how uptight and nervous she was.

"It makes me glad to see you much improved," he said humorously in reference to her words this morning, trying to tease her. he felt the need to make her feel comfortable, but why that should be he did not know.

Holding her hand, he moved to stand next to her.

Suddenly he was reminded of Jane. He was unable to do anything but watch Anne's pretty smile fade the moment her eyes fell on the young woman, who had dropped into a deep curtsy.

"Lady Jane", he improvised, "here is my wife, Queen Anne."

Jane rose. "Your Majesty," she said with a respectful nod in Anne's direction.

He prayed silently that Anne would not make a scene. He knew it was ungallant of him to greet his Queen in the presence of the very woman he desired, but he'd had no other choice, and now he could not lead Anne away without so much of a short greeting between the two women. If he just walked away with her, slandering Jane, the court would wager with nasty gossip for all eternity.

Luckily though, Anne seemed to be on her best behaviour, for she turned in Jane's direction to speak to her.

In reality, Anne's blood was boiling. The humiliation of being forced to greet this woman, before all curious eyes, was too great to be borne. But, given the circumstances, she had no choice but to cover her true emotions and address the little wench with carefully hidden sarcasm.

"Mistress Seymour," she drawled sardonically, purposely ignoring the fact that this whore was standing dangerously close to _her_ husband.

"Yes, your Majesty," Jane replied meekly, unconsciously glancing over at Henry for support. But he did nothing, for once a little unsure how to handle the situation.

The look on Jane's face was enough to drive Anne crazy, but she would not give in to her temper now. In an attempt to overcome the awkward silence which was threatening to fall between the two of them, she decided to speak up again.

"How do you like this tournament, Lady Jane?" she asked with carefully masked contempt. There was no way in hell she would ever let this piece of trash know how ill at ease she was feeling.

"I- I like it very much indeed, Madam."

"Ah," was all Anne could manage to say in the face of such a stupid answer.

With great satisfaction she noticed that Henry did not seem to be impressed by his sweetheart's answer either. She saw his eyes wander from Jane to herself and back, as if ... as if he was undecided… Maybe she had indeed made an impression with her confident appearance a few minutes ago. Maybe all wasn't lost. She had seen the obvious approval in his eyes when he greeted her.

_Yes, he must still find me beautiful…_

And yet, the gentle look in the aquamarine depths as he beheld his Jane, caused Anne to feel sick. How long had it been since he had last looked at her like this? It felt like a lifetime, a lifetime of humiliation and sadness.

Had it been possible, she would have lashed out in unconcealed rage, but she could not. She must be at her best behaviour, and never, never show any weakness. Not now. Everyone was watching her.

With an immense effort, she calmed herself down and wiped the sour look off of her face. Turning to Henry, she smiled dazzlingly up at him, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Luckily, he did not seem to notice.

"Shall we go, my love? I'm eager to watch you on the tilt yard," she purred, touching his arm. The gesture was somewhat forced and uncomfortable, for she had not touched him in so tender and intimate a manner in a long time. But she was determined to please him, and if he wanted to her to be demure, timid and gentle, like that Seymour girl, then so be it.

He looked down at her hand on his arm and then into her eyes before nodding his agreement. He held out his hand to her and she took it, thankful that he would not humiliate her publicly, at least no more than he already had by making her talk to this dim-witted blonde fool standing next to them.

"Lady Jane," Henry said, inclining his head towards her before leading Anne away in the direction of the tilt yard. He forced himself not to turn around and steal one last glance at her, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he concentrated on Anne, who was calmly walking beside him and looking straight ahead. When she felt him looking at her, she glanced up at him, and before the hurt in her eyes he was taken aback.

He had no time though to inquire after her well-being, for as they were walking towards the tilt yard, many voices were saluting them, and even more courtiers were eager to kiss the Queen's hand.

Anne accepted their greetings, inwardly cursing them all. Had the King welcomed her differently, would they have humbled themselves before her like this? She doubted it. But she was also pleased to receive at least a few honestly fond looks from people of whom she knew that they truly liked and supported her.

And so she held out her hand to ambitious young men, rejoicing a little in the stares of her enemies. They were probably cursing her, especially the members of the Seymour faction. After all, this tournament should have been Jane's golden opportunity. _Too bad,_ she thought jeeringly. _I won't give you that satisfaction. _

Apart from all the glances shot in her direction, she was also acutely aware of Henry's body so close to hers as they were walking together, his hips touching hers, his rough hand holding hers firmly. She had missed this, attending official events by his side, as his true wedded wife, taking pleasure in the handsome picture they made. Surely he had not forgotten how good they looked together?

She dared not look up at him, out of fear he might be wearing that faraway look on his face, pining after his blonde angel.

Had she dared, she would have found that he was peering at her curiously, watching her as she inclined her head to a friend or made polite conversation with some of those who dared to ask her questions. Despite her many shortcomings, she surely knew how to use her appearance and regal charisma, and he couldn't help but feel proud of the way she carried herself. He had almost forgotten how impressive she could be if she wanted to, how elegant her composure was, how refined her manners and speech.

He noticed, too, the envious stares of many men, devouring Anne with their eyes. Some faces were aglow with unguarded admiration, others with desperate desire. Even some of her sworn enemies seemed unable to look away.

The women, groups of them standing together, were an entirely different case. Some of them, mostly young girls, were in awe, astonished at the presence of so elegant and queenly a lady. Others, who did not possess half of Anne's beauty, were obviously green with envy. And others did not look at their Queen at all, for their lecherous eyes were focused on him.

A smile came to his lips. They were the centre of attention once more, just as it used to be. Thinking of the past, and watching Anne, he remembered something he had once told her.

"_Did you see? They were all looking at you. I'm glad. I want them to look at you. I want them to be envious! I want all of them to know exactly how much I love you." _

Yes, then, at the height of his love for her, he had bathed in the attention they all showered on his beloved. How they would gape, all those women who paled in comparison and stood no chance against her! How the men would make eyes at her, knowing all the while that she belonged to Henry alone, and was lost to them.

He had loved her then and taken pride in her charm and grace, and never even thought of looking at another, for there had been no place in his heart for any other woman.

And she was beautiful even now, after all these years. He'd always find her beautiful, and would never be able to deny that, physically, she was indeed the most appealing wife any man could wish for.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt.

But the times of courtly love were over, and there was no affection for her in his heart. He simply could not bring himself to love her the way he used to. He was deeply disappointed in her, in their marriage, for nothing was as it should be. No matter how ravishing she looked, she was no longer the centre of his life.

Another woman had taken her place in his heart...

They had reached the tiltyard, where the tournament had been interrupted upon the Queen's arrival.

So far, Charles Brandon was the undoubted champion. He had won every round, thus establishing himself as the audience's favourite. Now he was standing a little apart, wondering what was going to happen next. He looked at the royal pair and felt the old rage that always engulfed him whenever the Boleyn whore made an appearance. Why must she come today? He swore to himself that he _would _destroy her, and if it was the last thing he did on this earth.

Trumpets sounded, a spokesman's voice rang out.

"His Majesty the King! Her Majesty the Queen!"

The grooms, servants, and the courtly audience bowed to their rulers, still curious and astonished, for no one had expected that the Queen would come.

Henry, eager to continue with the tournament, led Anne to the tribune, carefully avoiding any muddy passages so as not to soil her beautiful dress and the hem of her mantle.

He noticed her looking out for her brother and father, obviously desirous to be close to them and find solace in their presence. She spotted them on the tribune, next to the Seymours, ironically. The Boleyn men stood straight, looking over to her, surprise written all over their proud faces.

Henry guided his wife up the steps to the royal platform and led her to her seat.

She turned around and looked at him, and for a fleeting second he thought time stood still. A silence fell. There was a turmoil of emotions in her eyes that touched him, and he did not know what to do. What did she want? Why could she not let him go, set him free? Why must she confuse him with those eyes that were so mesmerizing…

Then he remembered the hundreds of eyes watching them, and knew what he had to do.

"My Lady," he said loudly, so that everyone would hear him. "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to wear your favours?"

She nodded, hiding her surprise and gratitude, and reached for the small strap of cloth around her wrist.

He took it, hiding it beneath his armour, then bowed low before Anne. "Madam. It's my turn now." He gestured towards the tilt yard.

Anne nodded. "Your Majesty – Henry. I wish you good conduct."

He couldn't help rejoicing in her crooked little smile, and he hated himself for it. _Don't do this. You don't love her. You made this marriage seduced by witchcraft, remember? _

With as much dignity as he could muster, he hastened away from her.

It was his time to joust with Henry Norris, and he quickly made his way over to the spot where the grooms were waiting with his horse. As he mounted his stallion, Charles Brandon won the last round and received a wave of applause that echoed excitingly in Henry's ears. He spurred on his horse and was about to ride off when he noticed Jane still standing where he and Anne had left her. He gazed at her and smiled, secure in the knowledge of her affection. She would give him the strength to forget Anne's poison once and for always.

Across the yard, Anne watched in horror as her husband reigned in his horse to look at Jane Seymour. She could not see his face since his back was turned to her, but she could virtually imagine the sweet smile on his lips.

_Damn him. Damn him to hell. What did I ever do to deserve this?_

It hurt too much. To be publicly shamed in so blatant a manner by her own husband. Suddenly she felt sick. She wanted to run, get away from this humiliation, to a hidden place where no one would take notice of her suffering. A strong urge to hide her face in her hands and cry came over her, but she fought hard against it. She knew she was being watched.

And anyway – she was so tired of crying over Henry. It was breaking her heart to see him love others, but she was sick of exhausting herself because of his faithlessness. She sighed. Where was the love he had once borne towards her in his heart? The great passion that had torn a country apart?

Eventually, she managed to tear her eyes away from Henry and his whore.

Observing the people in the audience to her left, she noticed that her father had been watching the scene too, his face blank and void of all emotion. When he turned to her, though, his eyes were burning with a cold rage, and she knew the look was mirrored in her own. It was as if he was trying to say to her: _We must never lose the King's love. Remember? We mustn't. And we won't. Do you really think the Boleyns would ever give way to another family? Don't be a fool. You are the Queen of England. _

George saw the interaction between his father and sister, and bestowed on Anne one of his compassionate looks that always gave her strength. She raised her chin, unwilling to let her distress show.

_I am the Queen of England, s_he told herself firmly, letting her eyes wander over the audience. Her defiant eyes met John Seymours', and for a moment it seemed to her as if he was taken aback. Anne smiled haughtily, daring him to defy her. She noticed that Jane Seymour had taken a seat next to her father, applauding Henry wildly, a benign smile on her lips. Anne raised her slanting brows, disgusted by the woman's giddy foolishness. John Seymour smiled uncomfortably, but he still met the Queen's eye squarely, unwilling to back down.

Anne fumed. Who was he to look at her like that? Did he really think of himself and his position as so secure, enough so that he could slander his _Queen? _

It was enough to make her blood boil.

She would show him. She would show the Seymours that they were nothing but fools. They had neither the wits nor the influence her own family possessed, nor could they hope to rise to power by themselves, at least not as long as the Boleyns were the most prominent faction at court. They had nothing, nothing but an old name. While Anne and her family wielded power and authority, the Seymours depended in all things on their master.

All they could rely on was Henry's desire for Jane, and had he not fallen in love with her, they would never have risen in the King's esteem the way they had in the previous weeks.

They were certainly not as powerful as everyone thought. Their position was far from secure. A trained and farsighted courtier herself, she knew very well that they were pushing Jane in Henry's direction with all their might in order to speed up the process of bringing the Boleyns down, and themselves closer to the crown. Jane was their only ace in this game.

But, of course, they must never be underestimated – they were ambitious, and that alone was reason enough to scare Anne. They had the strong will to put a family member on the throne, and that was what made them so dangerous.

Yes, Jane Seymour was a threat, and she knew she had to get rid of her. Otherwise, that woman would be her downfall.

It was hilarious and frightening, that she should now find herself in exactly the same situation as Katherine of Aragon, her sworn enemy. The great irony of it was not lost on her. Was this God's vengeance? His answer to her ill treatment of Katherine?

Well, if it was, then so be it. She would succumb to His will, but she still couldn't bring herself to feel anything but hatred for Jane Seymour.

_Whore… If you want to take my place, then at least look me in the eye, _she thought, her whole body afire with burning hatred. Her eyes were mere slits, and with great satisfaction she perceived her rival's obvious distress, for the girl was squirming under her gaze.

Satisfied, she turned away, squaring her shoulders and focussing on the tilt yard, where her husband was getting ready for the joust.

She could feel Jane Rochford's eyes on her, and those of that little harlot, Catherine Brandon, but she did not turn around to look at them.

_Let them stare. Let them gossip. Let them plot against me. If God gives me the strength, I will make sure that none of their plans ever succeed. _

Then, suddenly anxious and overcome by her strained nerves, she laughed freely, not caring what anyone thought of her.

_Look at me, all of you! You want me to admit defeat? You want me to quiver with fear and creep away, denouncing my claim to the throne? Well, I shall not. I am Anne, Queen of England. _

_And I tell you now, should I ever again have the power, I will destroy you utterly. And I shall have my vengeance. _

Yes, this was how it was going to be…

She had no time to make up any exact plans, though.

Trumpets sounded.

Anne straightened a little in her seat, looking over at Henry on his white stallion.

Would he win? Norris was a good sportsman as well as a talented rider, and had good chances, too. Henry would be nothing short of furious should he lose this round, she was sure of it.

"His Majesty the King has entered the list and will now joust, a la plaisance, with Sir Henry Norris!" The spokesman gestured in the direction of Norris, who was waiting on the other side of the tilt yard.

Drums sounded. People cheered. Even Anne could feel the excitement.

All eyes turned in the direction of the King, who spurred on his horse and rode across the yard and back, greeting his subjects. Anne applauded automatically, peering at Henry's flushed face. He was like a boy looking forward to his favourite game. A very, very dangerous boy.

"Play then, my own darling," she muttered under her breath. It was all so ridiculous.

She was thoroughly pleased, though, when he inclined his head in her direction as he passed the tribune. She raised her right hand spontaneously, greeting him in return. Animated by the general commotion and noise all around, she intensified her applause.

It was as if a fever had captured the audience. A tremor ran through them all. They were burning, burning with impatience.

The King, majestic on his white horse, was slowly raising the lance his assistants were handing him, studying his opponent, Norris, with keen eyes.

It was now or never. This was the moment they had all been waiting for. No matter how splendid the other rounds had been, it was the King they wanted to see.

Henry knew this. Jousting, or any other sport for that matter, was never just a game. It was a show of force and physical power, which was important for a king. He must always prove to his subjects that he was in full possession of his bodily strength. Also, by winning the day, he would make sure that everyone admired him, and he had always been one to care for people's good opinion of him. Make them love you, and they will accept less savoury things, too.

He sent a short prayer to Heaven, asking God for protection and guidance. Excitement was filling him, his blood was boiling. His heart was beating in a frantic rhythm. This was too good to be true. He knew he would win. He would! _I am the King of England. _He felt powerful, irresistible. Breathing in deeply, he managed to forget everything around him. Anne, Jane, the whole world. He concentrated on the lance in his hand, the animal beneath him, the opponent before him.

And then the trumpets sounded, and he hammered the stirrups into the horse's sides.

It shot ahead like a cannon ball, neighing loudly. Norris was riding in a similar pace, getting closer and closer. The audience was going wild, cheering frantically, the noise of roaring voices echoing in Henry's ears.

His heart raced. He tightened his grip on the heavy lance, lifting it even higher. Aiming for Norris' breast-plate, he moved the weapon in his opponent's direction, ready to strike.

But something was missing.

He had meant to jolt his lance up quickly, but, as he moved to do so, he felt his hold on the weapon slip but slightly, his arm dropping a little.

And then things started to happen really fast. He watched in horror as Norris' lance was coming closer and closer to his head, its peak glaring at him. This was terribly, terribly wrong. There was no noise in his ears, no other sight before his eyes but the deadly weapon in his competitor's arm.

He made a futile effort to tear himself lose, to somehow escape the impact of the lance, which he knew would inevitably come.

But it was too late.

The unbridled power of the thrust hit Henry's head frontally, mercilessly, making him feel as though his skull was being torn apart. A surge of shock and pain rushed through him, the startling noise of the forceful impact vibrating in his ears as he felt his weight shift. His heavily armoured body was being lifted out of the saddle; his head bounced forward, his arms jerked up in a frantic motion.

As he was thrown off the horse, it seemed to him as if the world was passing by in slow motion, and he was helpless. A sudden panic clutched at his heart.

He was going to die.

Scared to death and unable to do anything, he let out a terrified cry, but it was muffled by the helmet. The visor blocked his view, so much that he felt like one blind, the bright rays of sunshine playing tricks on him. He was flying...

For a fleeting moment he seemed to dangle in the air like a bird, weightless and idle, staring up at the sky. It was surreal and utterly strange.

But then, suddenly, something took hold of him, pulling at him with eager, powerful hands, dragging him down - gravity. His eyes widened, his heart beat wildly, the pain pondering in his temple was unbearable. He was falling, falling, falling endlessly, out of the world and into an abyss, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

With a loud noise he crashed into the wooden barrier in the middle of the tilt yard which separated the areas of the two opponents.

Horrified, he noticed that one of his feet was still caught in the stirrups, and that the horse was going down with him.

He hit the ground with a thud and lay still, even as the enormous weight of the animal pressed him into the mud.

A wave of even greater pain flooded his whole body, and he twinkled, trying to see, to comprehend, but neither did he see nor could he fathom what was going on around him. There was only the rhythmic pounding in his skull, the sweat on his brow, the weakness of his body.

Half-consciously, he noticed the horse getting off of him and trotting away. He made an attempt to move, to get up as well, to open his mouth and scream, but the pain was too great to be borne.

Was this the end? It was so tempting to give in to oblivion. To let it all go.

A dull weariness came over him, closing his lids, lulling him in completely. His limbs slackened as a merciful feeling of apathy engulfed his whole being.

The last thing he perceived was the humming of nearby voices, terrified screams rising from the throats of men, the anxious shrieks of many females.

And then there was darkness, and nothing but darkness, and he heard no more.


	6. The eyes of Anne Boleyn

**4. The Eyes of Anne Boleyn**

* * *

_Dreams…_

_He was tracing a secret path, hidden yonder there, beyond all earthly misery. His feet were light, his walk confident. He was young and he was King, untouched by sorrow and doubt. The sun was shining brightly, its rays tickling his skin, and in his heart, nothing but an utter joy, a feeling of satisfaction, of happiness that knew no boundaries._

_And then there was her. She approached him, her head held high, eyes blazing like a blue flame. She was everything and more, majestic in her stride, the most beautiful woman on earth._

_A goddess among mortal men, there was no denying…_

_He ran to her, enfolding her slender frame in his arms, pressing her to him. He kissed her lips with feverish ecstasy, and she trembled in his embrace. Pleasure surged through him, leaving him breathless, aroused, his blood boiling in his veins._

_She cooed words of love in her purring, melodic voice, gently stroking his face, looking up at him with those marvellous eyes of hers, so blue and so bewitching … both innocent and seductive._

_He was content and satisfied in her arms. When he was with her, as he was now, nothing mattered to him but the feeling of her skin against his, his mouth on hers, the two of them together._

_Ah! The sweet rapture of love, beautiful and sacred, enchanting him with its undying appeal. He was in love with love itself, and he was in love with this woman._

_There was something exotic, something mystical about her and this love; it was both pure and savage at the same time, driving him crazy. He was in a frenzy and he could not let go, would never let go…_

_Nothing else mattered, nothing but her and the dark passion that threatened to overwhelm them both as she embraced him more possessively, pushing him down, lowering her lips to his, and then lower, and lower still._

_He was lost._

* * *

Anne knew something was wrong when she saw the lance slipping slightly from his arm. She knew something was missing.

After years of being with Henry, loving him and studying his every move, she knew his body better than all, and the smallest of his movements revealed to her a thousand things. And so, the sight of his quivering gloved hand brought a sudden anxiety that shook her to the core.

To all others, if they had noticed anything at all, it meant nothing. They had no doubts that Henry would break Norris' shield and send him spiralling backwards.

But it was not to be.

Clutching the chair, her knuckles turning white, Anne watched in horror as Henry raced toward Norris and lost control over his weapon. When the lance of his opponent made contact with his helmet, his head was jerked back violently, and he was thrown off. She saw him move awkwardly, trying to safe himself, but there was nothing he could do.

Time seemed to be passing very slowly. Somehow, even as Anne's eyes took in the dreadful sight, it seemed her throat could not manage to produce a single sound. She was paralysed, frozen in place.

She watched as the big horse went down with him, pushing him into the wooden barrier in the middle of the tiltyard, his left leg scratching awkwardly against it. Then he fell to the ground, and the animal fell upon him, before it disentangled itself and trotted off.

Finally, the clash of Henry's heavy armour as he hit the ground caused Anne to scream.

_"NO!"_

Her voice rang out piercingly to the ears of the audience, startling them even as their eyes perceived what was going on.

Anne saw nothing, her eyes were fixed on Henry's unconscious form, lying motionlessly on the yard. Was he dead? No, no, it could not be.

For a second, a deafening silence fell as all the cheering and laughing on the tribune and all around died down. The world stood still.

Suddenly, the cry of a man broke the silence. "THE KING!" he shouted simply, his voice edged with fear and shock.

And then, all hell broke lose.

A tumult of voices arose, shrill voices, deep guttural shouting, the shrieks of anxious, terrified women. The King was hurt, unconscious!

Anne, who had jumped up from her seat, still stood transfixed, unable to move.

She saw a bunch of men, including Charles Brandon, her father and brother, and John Seymour, run to the King, who was still not moving. They bent over him, shouting loudly, trying to push each other out of the way to get closer to Henry. When the Doctor rushed to them, they made way for him, and he quickly cast a glance at his lord.

"Take him, with all care, into the pavilion, where I may serve him better," he told the others, worry in his cautious, old eyes. "And," he added solemnly, "pray for him."

The men acted immediately. "Seymour, Boleyn!" Brandon shouted. Carefully, they lifted Henry's body from the ground onto their shoulders and started off in the direction of the pavilion, the Doctor walking next to them, never taking his eyes off the King. They had problems getting through, for by now people were crazy with fear.

All the while, no one was paying any attention to the Queen. Anne still had not moved. She was horrified, too deeply shocked to do anything. From the depth of her mind she heard a nagging voice, commanding her to take action, to get things under control. But her body showed no reaction.

Her eyes watched the men as they carried Henry away. She paid no heed to all the noise, the screaming, to Jane Seymour, who was walking around with the terrified expression of a child. All she could see was Henry's face, even and seemingly lifeless, blood running over his brow.

Her heart constricted at the sight of him being carried away like some fatally wounded animal. She was shaking, but it was not the cool January air that was causing it. She was shaking with a fear too great for words. Something was wrong with the world, utterly wrong, and she was helpless.

Half-consciously, she heard the noise of small feet coming up the stairs next to her, and before she knew it she was in Nan's arms, clutching her desperately.

"No, no, no," she said again and again, her nails digging into the other woman's back. "No, no, say it's not so," she cried, putting her head on Nan's shoulder.

Nan, afraid herself and unsure what to do, somehow managed to speak in a calm voice. "Shh, madam, shh. He is alive. He is alive!" She knew the Queen needed comfort now, someone to hold on to. They stood there amidst the tumult, holding each other.

* * *

While Anne was still clutching her seat, watching numbly as Nan ran towards her, Charles Brandon, the Boleyns and John Seymour were taking the King to the pavilion, Henry Norris, a priest and but few others following closely behind.

As they passed the guards, Charles shouted: "Let no one come inside!" Some people were trying to get in, desperate to find out what was happening, but the guards pushed them out immediately, drew the curtains at the entrance of the large tent, and built themselves up before it, crossing their weapons.

Gently, the men put the King down on a large wooden table in the middle of the tent. The doctor then moved to examine Henry's unconscious form.

"I don't know if he'll come back to us." He told Charles.

"Will you bleed him?" The younger man asked, staring at Henry's seemingly lifeless body. A world without passionate, smart, vivacious Henry? He had never given that possibility a thought…

The doctor shrugged. "I don't think so, your Grace, I don't see how it will help him. His Majesty is now in the hands of God."

Brandon crossed himself, horrified.

Then he knelt down with the others and folded his hands to pray in silence, listening to the words of the priest who started to read from the Gospel.

The others followed Charles' example.

Quietly, Thomas Boleyn signalled to his son to follow him outside.

"Where are we going?" George asked.

"Back to Greenwich," Thomas replied in a harsh voice, annoyed at his son's ignorance. "Don't you know anything? In a crisis such as this, the centre has to hold. And we must hold."

George nodded. "But should we not check on Anne first? Father?"

Thomas hesitated for a brief moment, glancing in the direction of the tribune. "Yes. Let's go. But we must be quick. There's not much time to settle things to our advantage."

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity, Nan felt the tension in Anne's body fade a little. "Madam, you must talk to your father and brother. They're coming." She took a step back, causing Anne to shiver slightly.

With an immense effort, she pulled herself up, straightening her back. She was still clutching the seat next to her, craving something to hold on to in this living hell.

She watched numbly as George and her father sprinted up the steps and came to a halt before her. "Oh God," she screamed, not caring who heard her, before she burst into a flood of fresh tears.

George said nothing and just drew her into his arms, stroking her hair gently and pressing a kiss to her crown. "Shh, sister. Don't cry, darling. Don't weep."

As always, she found comfort in his embrace. She clung to him like a leaf clinging to a tree before the storm blows through. He was the solid rock in a world of madness. The only hope.

Her father found other words. He laid a gentle but urgent hand on her shoulder, and his voice rang out distinctively to her ears. "Anne, listen to me now. George and I will head to the palace and take care of things. If Henry… if anything should happen to the King, we must be prepared. Elizabeth is his only legitimate heir. You know that…"

She heard only half of what he said, snuggling closer to George. She could not think of Elizabeth now. If Henry died… No. he mustn't.

"… to Cromwell." Her father went on. "You must stay here. Anne, do you hear me? Stay by the King's side." When he noticed that his words had not registered, he drew her to himself and, placing his hands on her shoulders, shook her slightly until she looked up at him. Then, with more gentleness, he put his hands on her cheeks. "Anne. Listen to me. You are England's Queen. You must get a hold of yourself. Please. For me. For your daughter. For Henry."

She nodded solemnly, soothed by his familiar voice. Of course, he'd take care of things. He always did.

Suddenly she was aware of her surroundings again. She remembered that Henry was lying in that pavilion right now, unconscious and severely injured. He needed her. And she needed to make sure he was still among the living.

"Go to him now!" Her father said, glad that some resemblance of sanity had returned to her.

Spurred on by his words, she flew down the steps and across the yard, to the pavilion where her beloved had been taken.

"Make way for the Queen!" A spokesman shouted as Anne rushed past him, and people hastily got out of the way, looking after their mistress in confusion.

She paid them no mind. She hurried to the pavilion, unaware of the people calling out to her, the mud soiling her dress.

"Let me by!" She demanded, out of breath as she halted before the guards at the entrance. When they did not react immediately, she screamed "I AM THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!"

They let her in, and she stumbled into the tent. She saw Brandon, Sir John, Norris and the Doctor by the King's side, praying with the priest, who must have come in a short while before her.

Startled by her abrupt entrance, they looked up, then bowed shortly in her direction. But she couldn't care less for their proper greetings now.

"How is he? What's happening?" She addressed the Doctor, fear in her voice.

She strayed over to the table, carefully touching Henry's brow with one of her cool hands. They had taken off his helmet and cleaned his face a little. He looked horrible.

"Madam… I fear the King's Majesty is badly hurt. The opponent's weapon hit him frontally on the head, and he injured his leg when he fell. We can only pray that he will wake up soon."

She took a step backwards, as if physically struck by his words.

"My Lady…" the Doctor went on, but at the sight of her face he trailed off.

Anne said nothing. She raised her head and met Brandon's eyes, and in them read the same feelings that tormented her – fear, shock, and disbelief. For once, they were one the same page.

Suddenly she felt like she could not take it anymore. Sinking to the ground next to him, she took Henry's rough hand in hers and kissed its palm. She began sobbing, not whiningly and desperately like a child, but with a deep sorrow that set her whole body atremble.

Beholding her predicament, the other men backed away slightly, ashamed of watching her in a moment like this. But still, they could not leave, either. There was nothing that could take them away from the King now.

Anne was glad when they had moved away a little, but it did not really matter whether she had privacy now or not. She was unable to feel anything else but misery.

She hovered there for some minutes listening to Henry's faint breathing, so faint it was almost inaudible. The voice of the priest rang out to her ears.

_"O Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need: We humbly beseech Thee to behold, visit and relieve Thy sick servant, Henry VIII, King Of England and France, for whom our prayers are desired…"_

She pressed her palms together, her lips moving as she prayed along. But it did not help. It was as if with every word, every chant and rogation, her sorrows increased.

Getting up from the ground, she held on to the table to steady herself. She reached out and traced the contours of her husband's face with her fingers. His jaw, eyes, brows, temples. The straight, perfect nose. Those lips that were so full, so sensual – to die for.

She smiled with tears in her eyes. Even severely injured, his face dirty, he was easily the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He drew her in even now, maybe more so than ever. She was painfully aware of the fact that maybe this was the last time she would ever see him alive. In an hour or so his life could be over, and she would never see him again.

Never see him again? Never be encircled in his arms again, soothed and comforted? Never kiss him again, mad with desire? Never see his blue eyes again, never, never. Never again?

"Don't go," she whispered, looking at his still form and holding his hand in hers. "Please. Don't go. Just because you have done everything that you've promised… please don't leave me."

He had made her a marquess, raised her from her inferior position as a mere courtier's daughter to a powerful queen, had given her the world. In his arms she had lingered and rejoiced, with him she shared some of her most cherished memories.

"You are the love of my life, the light in my dark, dark world. Without you life is a desert … a howling wilderness…"

The comfort of his devotion, the great respect he had always paid her, the gentleness that had accompanied his unconditional love of her - she mustn't lose him.

She thought of their years together. Their first encounter, the long courtship, marriage and its consequences. The wildest nights of passionate lovemaking. Conception and birth of their most precious jewel, Elizabeth. Henry had been the centre of her life for the last decade, and the thought of letting him go was unbearable.

He was everything.

In this very moment, she did not call to mind the coolness he had been treating her with these past few months, or the hurt and misery he had put her through, nor did she think of his faithlessness. His cruelty. All she wanted to recall was their love for each other, the passion that had torn England apart, a love that had withstood many storms and lasted for so long a time. She thought of the depth of his devotion, the things he had done for her. She owed him so much.

All that she was, all she ever would be, was linked to him and his love.

It was not that she did not see things as they were. To live without him would make her more powerful than ever – she was too much of a trained courtier not to think of this possibility. As mother to England's new regent, Elizabeth, she would have the power to crush all her enemies. She would be one of the most powerful woman in Europe.

But what of it? It did not matter. It did not matter one bit. She would sacrifice all - titles, wealth, power - just to be with him.

Seeing him like this, unconscious and severely injured, she realized how deeply she still loved him, despite the things that had happened between them lately. She needed him.

Once, years ago, he had been but a challenge. To seduce him had been her duty as an obedient daughter; she had had no choice but to succumb to her family's expectations and try to lure Henry in with all she had to offer. She had set upon the task with subtle caution, using all her charms on him while still keeping a certain distance. But then, getting to know him better, she had fallen for him, and in time her affection had grown into a love so passionate, so all-consuming, that she was now unable to let go.

It was painful to know that no one ever realized that she truly loved him. All they knew was that Henry had courted and desired her for years, wanting her so much that he had even sacrificed his popular marriage to Katherine of Aragon, his loyalty to the Pope, and his closest friend and advisor, More. They thought of her as Anne the Concubine, the Boleyn whore who had usurped the crown of a most beloved Queen. Who had no feelings. But it was not just Henry who fell in love all those years ago. She had come to care for him, and she loved him, more than she loved anyone in the world, except Elizabeth. He was so dear, meant so much to her, despite his many faults.

She was in no illusions about him. She knew of his hidden cruelty, his despotic tendencies. But she also knew his tenderness, his gentle fervour, the comfort of his embrace, of his kisses. She knew him so well, as if he were part of her own flesh. She knew his smell. The way his dark hair felt beneath her fingers. His taste. The way he carried himself.

She knew all of these things and so many more.

In any case, how dare people judge her? Brandon, Chapuys, the Seymours. _Am I not a woman as other women, capable of love and gentleness? They do not know all my secrets._

And so she hovered there, tormented by these thoughts, horrified that Henry might die. If he died now, the last words she had said to him would be of no meaning at all. No last confessions of her feelings, no declaration of the love she felt burning inside.

No, he mustn't die. The great love of her life… Surely he was not that heavily injured. _Oh God, say it's not so._

If he went, her heart would be shattered into a million pieces.

She put her palms together once more, and, for the first time in many months, spoke a genuine, unselfish prayer. A prayer not for her own sake and the safety of her body and soul, but for the one she loved, his health and salvation.

"Please God… in Your mercy, don't take him away from me. Let him live. Let him watch his daughter grow up. Elizabeth needs her father … and I need my King."

If only he lived, she would change her life forever, if God wanted her to do so. She would renounce her wicked ways, her selfishness. She'd do it all, if only Henry survived.

"I beseech Thee, oh Lord, have mercy on my husband. I swear to You now, if he lives, I shall lead a different life. I shall abjure conceit, hatred and vengeance. I will sacrifice."

Yes, she made God this promise, that if Henry survived, she would live a life of virtue and honour. Amidst all her lusting, plotting and scheming these three years as Queen, she had almost forgotten what had once been her ultimate goal– to live a life according to the Gospel, an existence conform to the rules and regulations of the Holy Scripture and God's word. A life of goodliness and piety. She had always been a religious person, down to her very core, and now she was reminded of how far she had strayed from the path she should have taken.

Her mind was made up. _This is how it's going to be. _Everything would be different.

But for now there was nothing she could do but pray, and for the next minutes she never looked up, concentrating completely on her prayers, her lips moving rapidly as she beseeched God for His grace, repeating the words after the priest.

_"O God, I am in Your hands. You know me from my mother's womb. O Wise Creator, soothe my pain; heal my body and soul…"_

* * *

While Anne was speaking to her unconscious husband, and begging God to save him, she was not aware of Brandon's sharp eyes watching her.

It was disturbing to see her like this - so broken, so unlike the picture she presented to everyone at court. But it also gave her a human touch, a new, pleasant trait of character that had been sorely missed.

For the first time ever, he realized that this woman, the Boleyn whore, famed as the great seductress and usurper, was also a lover, a female with genuine feelings like every other, praying for the life of the one she loved.

She was a woman with a heart and a soul, a mother, a child of God, only flesh and fear of death as much as any man. Right now she did not look at all like the dramatic, vain, and selfish Queen they all knew. Desperate and sorrowful she seemed to them as she hovered there, next to the man for whom she had sacrificed so much and fought so passionately.

Even to him, Charles, who hated her like a scorpion, it appeared that she too was capable of honest feelings, of genuine emotion.

And so, seeing the distraught woman there in front of him, he prayed even harder, beseeching the Almighty for the preservation of the King, repeating the priest's words:

_"Most Merciful Jesus, lover of souls, we pray Thee, by the agony of Thy Most Sacred Heart and by the sorrows of Thine Immaculate Mother, to wash in Thy Most Precious Blood this servant of Yours, Henry VIII, true King of England, our sovereign lord. Heart of Jesus, once in agony, have mercy on him…"_

* * *

They had been in the pavilion for two hours, praying and hoping, and still there was no sign of life from the King. He just lay there, never stirring or opening his eyes. He never even moaned in pain. There was nothing.

Anne half-heartedly wondered what her father and brother were up to right now. They were probably busy manipulating and scheming, as they always did, indulging in imperious dreams of their futures. She knew them to well. Her father, she was sure of it, was already hailing himself as de facto King of England. But, she swore to herself, if against all hope Henry should die indeed and leave her alone in this cold, merciless world, she would see to it that Elizabeth was raised according to her own values and expectations, and not be governed by the whims of Thomas Boleyn.

The thought of Henry's death brought another rush of sharp pain, and she let go of his hand. She needed to get out of this tent. She could not sit here and watch his unconscious form any longer, helpless before the tide of threatening emotions overwhelming her.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," she announced quietly. The men nodded. "I'll be back shortly."

She left the pavilion through a smaller entrance, unwilling to meet too many people outside. It was the entrance for the servants, who would bring food and other things to the King, and so just a few people had gathered there. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, unwilling to give away any information about the King's condition. Protected by the guards, she drew her hood over her head and left the pavilion behind for a short walk.

* * *

He woke with a start, his eyes wide open.

Something was not right with him and his body. It was the weirdest of feelings. He seemed to be floating on thin air, looking down at his form lying on… what was it he was laying on, exactly? He didn't know.

At the same time, he felt lethargic, as heavy and sluggish as a mill-stone.

Moving his head turned out to be impossible, so he opened his eyes slightly, trying to get a glimpse of his surroundings. Where was he?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some men praying silently by his side, their heads bent. They had not yet noticed his awakening, he figured.

Watching them, he came to the startling realization that he did not know who they were. What on earth were they doing there, obviously praying for him?

And, more importantly, why was he lying on hard wood, like a cow ready to be butchered?

If only he could get up. He tried to do so, but it was impossible. He held back a moan of pain when he moved his leg. Also, he had a splitting headache that was driving him mad.

This could not be true. He had not the slightest understanding of what had happened, where he was or who he was with.

And then, suddenly, startlingly so, he realized in horror that he had no idea who _he_ was. He did not no his own name. He did not know anything.

He was just a body, a lump of flesh, hurting and desperate, without a name.

Horrified and scared, he let out a sharp breath, startling the men around him.

"Majesty? Your Majesty!" The voice of an elder man could be heard somewhere close to him.

Majesty? Majesty? What on earth was that person talking about?

Someone leaned over him, obvious concern in his eyes. It was a young man with a pleasant face, a face that struck a chord of familiarity. It was as if this face was edged into his very being, as if he knew this man in the flesh.

"Charles," he whispered before he knew why or how. The man smiled back, so it was obviously the correct name.

Brandon laughed with relief, looking at Henry's face. "Oh, thank God! He's alive!" The others gathered around them, smiling. Recovering quickly from his shock, Charles began gesture wildly. "Alright gentlemen, out, out!"

The King needed some privacy. He remembered Anne, and called after one of the men: "Fetch the Queen! The King is conscious again!"

Only himself and the doctor remained behind. Norris left reluctantly, looking at the King with a worried expression, but Charles assured him with a nod that it was alright for now.

John Seymour rushed out to see his son and inform him that the King was alive. On his way he shouted out loud that the King was awake, and the men in the tent heard the applause from outside.

"Majesty," the Doctor addressed the King, leaning over him only to be met by a look of sheer incredulity.

"Majesty? What Majesty are you talking about?" Was the faint reply of his patient.

"My Lord… about you, of course. The King." The doctor said, looking at Henry with confusion, and then meeting Brandon's worried gaze.

Charles went over to them, touching Henry's arm. "Don't you… don't you know who you are?" His voice was high-pitched, frightened.

"I – no. God help me, I don't know." His eyes started to dart frantically, trying to comprehend the world around him. He was in some kind of tent, in England. The man leaning over him was Charles. This was all he knew.

"But – but you know my name…" Charles began. "You know who I am! Then why don't you – " Seeing the tormented look in Henry's eyes, he stopped.

Patting his arm, he stepped away from the table and gestured for the doctor to join him.

"What does all this mean? Is it possible that he has lost his memory?"

The old man frowned. "It is possible. I never had a patient who lost his memory, but I've heard of such cases. Sometimes it lasts for years, sometimes it takes just a few hours before all memory returns... I can't tell."

Charles nodded, then returned to Henry's side. He was concerned. This was one of his closest friends, after all. Perhaps the closest he ever had. How would this affect the King, his reign and realm? It was impossible to tell what would happen in the future. They could only hope his memory would indeed return soon.

"Charles," came the faint voice. "Tell me … who am I? It's all so strange… I heard noises outside… so many of them…" He trailed off.

Brandon gulped. "Yes. Those were the crowds waiting for news. For news about their King."

"What?" This was a huge joke, he was sure of it. Some kind of nightmare.

"You are Henry VIII, son of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, by the Grace of God, King of England and France, Defender of the Faith, supreme head of the Church of England."

_Henry … Henry… Henry VIII._ It echoed in his head. _King of England and France. By the Grace of God…_

He laughed. He did not know why, but he laughed. At the absurdity of it all, the stern look on Charles' face. At his own helplessness. This was ridiculous.

At least his forename sounded familiar. Yes, indeed. He had heard it a thousand times before, in another life, before…

Before the accident. He remembered.

Riding quickly, focusing on the opponent. Extreme concentration. Then, being struck by the forceful thrust of a lance and lifted out of the saddle. Sharp pain. Falling, falling forever.

"I fell…" He muttered. "I fell down the horse, and now I remember nothing."

It was too much. He tasted the salt of his own tears as he started to weep silently. It must be a nightmare. It must be!

But it wasn't. The pain in his head was all too real, as was the dried blood he felt on his temple. All of this.

"I'm here for you, Majesty. Henry." Charles said, smiling awkwardly. "Rest now. Sleep."

Henry looked into his friend's eyes – Charles was his friend, wasn't he? – and found comfort in the sympathy he saw there. The last thing he perceived was the rustling of skirts, the urgent voice of a woman. "He's awake? Oh, my God!"

But he was too weak to stay awake. He drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, someone else was leaning over him. The faint odour of jasmine and roses came to his nostrils, carried by a soft breeze brushing his face with merciful coolness.

He blinked; it was hard to see straight. His tired eyes raked over his breast and his right arm, and he noticed on it an elegant white hand. This certainly wasn't Charles. Someone else had come to see him.

As he looked up, his heart constricted.

It was a woman. A beautiful woman. A mass of long dark curls surrounded her heart-shaped face. Her skin was flawless, her sensuous lips of a faint red, reminding him of passion and ardour, of hot whispers in the night.

But what really stood out was the pair of sparkling blue eyes, a look of worry and compassion in their depths. He gazed into them and found there something that startled and enchanted him, leaving him breathless. Those eyes were like hooks for the soul.

He had no idea who this could be.

In his puzzled state, he could neither comprehend nor think clearly, but what he did know was that this woman was the most fascinating creature he had ever beheld. There was something deep and dangerous in her that drew him in, something wild and exotic, unlike other women. And yet on the other hand, she exuded an air of charm and feminine grace that would appeal to any man.

Who was she? He did not recognize her, but her beauty touched him, as if his heart remembered something his mind did not. He tried to speak, but failed. He lay still, helpless, speechless, and gazed up at her, marvelling at her perfection.

He looked at the massive earrings with their glittering diamonds, the sparkling tiara on her head. Despite her obvious distress, she excluded an air of grandeur, and the noble attire suited her.

She seemed to notice his roaming gaze, and a warm smile came to her lips. A light leapt into her eyes, making them glimmer with the cool intensity of two aquamarines. It was fascinating.

Eventually, she reached out to take his hand in hers. "Henry," she whispered, "my love." She bent over and kissed him gently on the forehead, her mouth trembling. "I thought I'd lost you."

Her voice was deep and soothing, strangely appealing to his ears. Her words told of deep feelings, of hours of anxious waiting, and somehow, of heartbreak, too.

_Henry… Henry… Henry… my love…_

He felt the desperate need to talk to her and find out what her words meant, who she was. She seemed both familiar and utterly unknown. He made an attempt to speak, but nothing but a miserable choke was the result.

She murmured something in her unique deep voice that was almost a little guttural, and suddenly it hit him.

She was the one. She was the woman of his dream. The beauty who had come to him in his sleep.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, trying to understand. The last thing he remembered was falling endlessly, and then dreaming of this woman. Surely she must be dear to him if he saw her in his dreams. She was so very beautiful… so very desirable.

His head was spinning, searching for more memories of her, but there was nothing. No remembrance, no comprehension. His mind was a pitch-black hole, eating up his brain, making him feel utterly miserable.

He felt helpless, a wrack at the mercy of his own body. His mind was working slowly. How was it that he could not even remember the name of such a beautiful woman? A woman who called him her "love". It frustrated him to no end.

He stared at the pavilion's ceiling above him and noticed on the fair material two huge golden letters: H and A, linked together and richly ornamented. It was a beautiful emblem and he thought briefly how well the letters matched. But he could make nothing of it, and his eyes returned to the woman beside him when she squeezed his hand in a reassuring gesture.

"My own darling," she cooed, stroking his cheek gently. "Everything is going to be alright. I promise."

Henry felt a quantum of solace. Before the love in her eyes, he held his breath and forgot his weakness, and as a faint breeze blew gently through the tent and the woman's raven hair, something inside him tamed. Time stood still.

But what of time? It did not matter now, for he was spellbound.

He managed to smile gently, gratefully, a sweet smile that reached the icy blue of his eyes and made them sparkle with the warmth of sapphires. It was pure, undimmed, without reproach - the likes of which he had not bestowed on Anne Boleyn in a long time. There was the old glimmer of admiration in his gaze, the familiar soothing in his expression: Something akin to his former feelings for her, and it sent a shiver down Anne's spine.

But Henry was not aware of that change in him, nor of the fact that before his ardour for this woman had long since cooled. In his confusion, he fell for the second time for the woman who had once taken his heart by storm, and been loved and pursued by him with more fervour than any before her.

Anne - his great passion and folly. And once more, the encounter left him charmed, thrilled, changed.

With all the strength he could muster, he reached out to touch the soft skin of her face and caress the curve of her temples, and felt her leaning into his hand.

She covered his hand with her own, then pressed a light kiss on it.

"My love," she said once more, hesitantly, for she had seen gentleness and awe in his eyes, but no recollection. Was it true what the doctor and Brandon had told her, that he did not remember her? Or anything else, for that matter, not even that he was King of England? But how was it then, that he remembered Brandon, of all people, and not her? She was his wife, after all.

Henry sensed her uneasiness. This time, he managed to speak, but his voice was thin and shaky.

"What's … your name? I don't remember…" He trailed off.

She took his hand between her palms and looked him in the eye. So he didn't recall her. It was a confusing thought.

"I'm… Anne. Anne Boleyn." She did not know why she told him her maiden name … It was a spontaneous reaction.

Henry smiled. "Anne," he whispered hoarsely, rolling the name on his tongue. It was brazen and sensual, absolutely befitting. "Anne Boleyn."

He pressed her hand weakly. "Forgive me… for not… recalling you, beautiful Anne."

Had this been a merry occasion, she would have laughed. He still was, and would always be, the greatest charmer she knew. But she did not laugh. It touched her and shook her to her core to see this kindness in his eyes, the smile he gave her, the comfort he seemed to feel in her presence.

It had not been like this for so long. What did this mean? She was as confused as he was, but she decided not to let him know. She smiled her prettiest smile, showing off her dimples and the sparkle of her eyes. For now, it was no use to tell him who she really was. For now she would just be that – Anne Boleyn. She would just be there for him. She had always wanted to be his lover in the first place, not his Queen.

And maybe, maybe, this was a wink of destiny.

They looked at each other for a fleeting moment before his body slackened, and he drifted off to sleep, too tired and in too much pain to carry on a conversation.

Before he closed his eyes, he whispered her name once more, and the smile remained on his lips as he slept.

Anne stayed with him for but a little longer, watching him sleep, turning deaf ears to the noises outside. She knew they were gathering before the guarded entrance, trying to get a glimpse of their King, who was in the pavilion with no one but his wife.

When she had studied every inch of his face and taken another frightened look at the wound on his temple, she got up with shaking knees and kissed him on the forehead, then turned to leave the tent. The guards at the entrance let her through and re-crossed their arms immediately after she had exited. The others made way for her by pushing away the excited crowd.

Her subjects bowed and then raised their heads to voice worried questions, but she paid them no heed. She merely waved them to get up.

Brandon, untouched by the guards, looked at her with suspicion in his eyes. She knew he hated her, but for once in his life he would do as she pleased. By his side were the Doctor and Sir Henry Norris.

Anne spoke up. "The King's Majesty is asleep again. Tell me, Doctor, should we take him to the palace now, or let him rest here a little longer?"

The doctor bowed. "Your Majesty, as far as I know the King is out of immediate danger. I think it would be wise to take him away from here, to the warmth and comfort of the palace."

Anne nodded. "So be it. Your Grace," she said, turning to Brandon, ignoring the blank stare that always annoyed her. "I want you to arrange everything for his Majesty's safe transportation and escort to the palace. Take good care of him."

He inclined his head briskly and walked away to take the necessary precautions.

Anne turned away from him with a frown to address the other men. "Doctor, please go to the King's Highness now, and do not leave his side until he has safely reached the palace." The man hurried inside the pavilion.

"Sir Henry," Anne said with more difficulty, for she was always a little tentative in the presence of this man, who confused her with his penetrating eyes. For a moment, she did not know what to say to him. She would go to the palace herself in a few minutes, so it was useless to send him ahead. Then, out of the blue, she had an idea. She had desired to see Elizabeth anyway.

"Ride to Hertford House and fetch the Princess, my daughter. Surely, in this predicament, the King will find comfort in his only true-born child. Take her to Greenwich immediately, without delay! Tell Mistress Bryan it is the Queen's express command."

"Madam." Norris almost ran. Anne knew it was a difficult situation for him. He had almost taken the King's life, and although it was not his fault, for severe accidents were not an unusual occurrence at tournaments like this, it was an entirely different matter if a king was involved.

At last she turned to John Seymour, who had returned to the tent. Looking into his placid, round face, Anne thought she could not hate this man – not now, at least. He might be the father of the Seymour whore, but he seemed to be a good-natured person. She momentarily forgot the contempt she felt for him and all of his breed.

Luckily, he had left the pavillion immediately after the King's awakening, and therefore knew nothing of Henry's loss of memory. Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Brandon and the Doctor could be trusted to keep their mouths shut, but John Seymour ... it might have been difficult to buy his silence. Thank God he did not know.

"Sir John," she said gracefully, briefly inclining her head.

"Your Majesty," he replied, for once taken with this strong Queen.

"Sir John, what is it you wish to do? Will you escort the King to the palace? Or do you wish to return to your own home with your obviously distressed daughter?"

She could not deny herself the small jibe. It was probably the wrong thing to say, for she had seen a faint glimmer of admiration in the man's eyes that would now be extinguished. But he would fight her anyway, whether he admired her or not. She knew her own father too well to underestimate a man like John Seymour.

And, apart from that, the way his daughter was crouching there in the mud, crying over Henry, really was pathetic. And that girl should be Queen instead of her?

John Seymour smiled reservedly as he followed her gaze, perceiving the mockery in her voice. He knew very well that the Concubine had sharp eyes and was aware of the things they were planning for Jane. But he also sensed for the first time how tough and ambitious this woman really was. She would not give way so easily.

"Most gracious Majesty," he said with carefully hidden sarcasm, "I would be pleased to escort his Majesty to the palace. May God send him well to keep, and give him back his health quite soon."

Anne raised her head defiantly in response to his tone. She wanted to laugh in his face, throw a biting remark at him, but restrained herself. It would be of no use. She had to be the queen she was supposed to be, gracious but aloof.

"Well, indeed," she purred, "we all pray for his Majesty's speedy recovery. Sir John." She did not wait for him to bow but walked away, her ladies leaving a nearby group of young people to join their mistress.

They made their way from the tent to the horses. People bowed to her and fell to their knees before Anne, begging her for information about the King, but she said nothing. She was too deep in thought.

The grooms helped them up. Anne arranged her skirts quickly and set off at a rapid pace, half-consciously reassuring herself that her maids and guards were following close behind.

There was so much to do.

First, she would meet with her father and brother to tell them of the King's condition and arrange what was necessary in his chambers. With Henry injured and deprived of his memory, she was indeed Queen, and basically responsible for everything that happened at court.

And she would rather die than leave it all to the manipulative hands of Cromwell.


	7. One more chance

**"_Poor Katherine Howard. She lies in the cold ground next to me. Poor child. It was not her fault either. But we were like two moths drawn to the flame… and burned." Anne Boleyn, The Tudors, Final Episode  
_**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 5 : One more chance**

* * *

As soon as the group had reached the inner courtyard of Greenwich Palace, Anne dismounted her horse and hurried into the building, shielded by several royal guards.

Inside, she was greeted by a seemingly never-ending onslaught of prying courtiers, trying to get through to her and begging for information about the king. She ignored them all.

Walking through the great hall she thought quickly. She searched the room impatiently and was disappointed when she did not spot her brother and father among the crowds. Where were they, now of all times? She needed to talk to them, needed to hear George's soothing voice and find strength in her father's blank, confident eyes. She noticed Richard Rich among the people in the hall and addressed him, waving him near.

"Sir Richard! Have you seen the Earl of Wiltshire? Or Lord Rochford?"

"I'm afraid I have not, your Majesty" he said, an unreadable expression on his face. What was he thinking? And, did he still regard her as an ally and friend, despite his connection to Cromwell? She hoped so. He was a clever and cautious man who had her appreciation.

Seeing her disappointment, he spoke again. "Madam, I am going to find them and tell them of your desire to speak with them. I guess they are busy arranging things for the arrival of the King."

She relaxed visibly at his words. He was right. Of course they were busy preparing everything for Henry's arrival.

"Thank you, Sir Richard." She managed to say. "But excuse me now, I'm on progress. Secretary Cromwell is in attendance, I hope?"

"Of course, my Lady. He is in his offices. Good day to you, Madam. We all pray for the King." He added quietly.

Anne smiled warily and walked in the direction of Cromwell's rooms. Her initial plan of talking to her family first was useless, so she had to face Cromwell herself, without preparation. She would have liked to hear George's advice, he was always so strong, so composed. She silently cursed them both. Where were they, now of all times? Probably dreaming of their future as kind and prince of all England, Ireland and France. What fools.

It was not that she was helpless without them – never. But she was tense. Her fear for Henry's safety and well-being and the pressure of putting everything in order stressed her.

There was no way around the Secretary though. He was too powerful, too omnipresent at court. Too close to the Crown. She had to find him. He must never think she would leave this matter to him and stand idly by as he managed everything.

"Your Majesty" the men bowed to her as she neared Cromwell's chambers. They were gathering like hawks, knowing full well that, in case the king should die, his ambitious secretary would play an important role in the future.

Anne snorted involuntarily. _Cromwell._ A tremor of rage still ran through her whenever she thought of their quarrel about the dissolution of the monasteries, a highly political matter of great importance. She had had claimed that the money made out of it should be converted to better uses, such as educational programs, instead of being transferred to the king's treasury alone. She had always supported Cromwell's plan of investigating the religious houses, so that laxity and corruption could be revealed and stopped. Yet some monasteries had received good reports from the church comissioners, and she feared that the people of England would not accept the close-down of these houses.

She had the feeling that Cromwell was only interested in the immense proft he could draw from the dissolutions, and that his policies and ideas were slowly pushing the king's own viewpoint into the background.

_"I am questioning the policy, Mister Secretary," she had hissed, "because I'm not sure that it _is_ the king's."_

_"Madam, I - _"

_She couldn't believe his gall_._ How dare he question her words_?

_"You are far too high-handed, Mr. Cromwell!_" _She shouted, staring at him. She sensed that he was nervous - he knew her power. But he was angry, too, hating to_ _be upbraided by her._

_Her lips pursed; she wanted to claw him_. _She could not stand his vain glory and presumptuous power. Who did he think he was?_

_"You ought to be careful," she said smoothly, "or I will have you cropped at the neck..." _

_She saw his mouth twitch and a tiny fame blaze in his eyes. With a violent jerk of her head, she ordered him out, unable to look at him any longer. When she heard the door close behind him, she let out a sharp breath, realizing that she had just antagonized the king's most influential and powerful minister.  
_

She knew she should never have battled with him like that. It would have been wiser to stand by and watch, or at least to address the man calmly, instead of threatening him with the prospect of the axe cutting his head off. But the Reformation of the Church of England and everything that had to do with it was too important to her to hold back and let Cromwell besmirch it. Also, her nerves had played tricks on her. She had been overwrought, disappointed in Henry and everyone around her, horrified at what had become of her and her life. She was not pregnant, her position as Queen of England was in danger, and her husband did not love her anymore. And so, nervous and enraged, she had attacked the Secretary, knowing full well that if _he_ turned against _her_, she would be in grave danger. He was a powerful enemy, and the king loved him.

But the past was the past and could not be undone, and this was the present.

In less than half an hour, the King would arrive, and he had lost his memory. No one knew whether it would be only temporarily or for a long time, but it did not matter. She, Anne, was now in charge of things and had to make the best of it. She remembered her promise to God.

"_I shall abjure conceit, hatred and vengeance…"_

It was a nearly impossible task, but she would try. And to approach Cromwell would be her first step.

He was a rational man, and she knew how to deal with people like him. It was far easier than dealing with the likes of Henry, who were overly passionate. She had to be her most confident self: cool, gracious, exposing no weakness.

It was nearly impossible to influence him, but there was always a chance to win him as one's ally. She would not apologize for what she had said the other day – she was the Queen. And she would definitely not back down. But she would have to find a way to win his assistance, if only for the time being. With the King in his predicament, she would need all the help she could get. If by some miracle she would find a way back into Henry's good graces, then, well then she would deal with Cromwell. But now, she needed his support.

"Your Majesty" he welcomed her stiffly as she entered his bureau. She saw the dislike in his eyes, and frowned at it. They had been friends once. Good friends, united in their desire for a reformation, a new beginning. What had happened to them?

"_I shall lead a different life…"_

She closed her eyes briefly, then faced him. "Mr. Cromwell, the King is on his way, as you well know. Have you seen my father and brother?"

He regarded her calmly, and she stared back. Something changed in the room as they regarded each other. They had much in common. Both shrewd, wilful and intelligent. They knew what they wanted and went after it with determination and powerful ambition. Both ascenders, raised by the love and trust of a King they knew so well. Both in grave danger if Henry's mood should ever turn against them.

Rivals. Fighters. Believers.

"I have." Cromwell replied. "They are now on their way to arrange everything for his Majesty's arrival."

Anne nodded. "I sent for Princess Elizabeth. Have you drafted the necessary letters concerning her future, if, God forbid, ought should happen to the king's highness?" She lowered her voice. To predict the King's death was treason.

"Yes, indeed." He said in an equally calm voice, "if the King should die, Elizabeth would be crowned Queen of England as soon as possible, with your father as Lord Protector and yourself as Queen Dowager." He did not seem to be too pleased with the last bit.

"I see. I pray God it will never come to that. The king… he's out of immediate danger." She remembered something, something very important that Cromwell did not know yet. For a moment she wondered whether or not she should let him in on this delicate piece of information, but she had no choice. She would never be able to keep it from him once he spoke to Henry in person.

She began hesitantly. "Mister Cromwell… I must tell you, in strict confidence, that he … that it is very likely that the King has lost his memory."

There was a silence as Cromwell drew a sharp breath.

"I… what?" he replied, horror-stricken. "Completely?"

Anne shrugged. "We do not know. The doctor could not tell me much about it. We will have to fetch specialists. Anyway, he did not even recognize me, only the Duke of Suffolk." She added sulkily.

"I did not know. God help him" Cromwell said. "Another problem to solve…" he muttered more to himself than to her.

Anne cleared her throat. "It is too be kept secret, do you understand me? We'll have to keep it secret, at all costs. Do you understand? I don't want people to get the impression that their King is restricted in any way, or even unfit to rule."

"It will be kept secret." He said, knowing what her words implied. "Is there anything else you want me to arrange, your Majesty?" His voice was kinder now.

"Yes. I want you to make sure that, later, when the King is in his chambers, no one will be permitted to enter them without my permission. No one, except for my family, the doctors and the Duke of Suffolk. And yourself, of course."

He inclined his head, almost demurely. Maybe he, too, remembered that they had once been allies. Maybe. "Your Majesty."

She stepped forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

"Mr. Cromwell… Thomas. Let me tell you this: for old time's sake, let us forget the disagreements which have occurred between us as of late. For the King. For this realm. I am England's Queen," she said imperiously, "and you are the man the King trusts most in this world in matters of state. Everyone will look to us now. And we must never be subdued."

_Clever girl,_ he thought, looking at her. She knew how to play people. But he also saw the sincerity in her eyes. She was probably right. Everyone would look to them for answers and guidance, all the while hoping they would make a mistake, so that they could be replaced. Well, it mustn't be. He was unwilling to lose his power, and so was she. If he helped her, maybe she would let go of the idea of having him "cropped at the neck", as she had put it. The thought of destroying her had crossed his mind, too, after their quarrel… maybe it was better to side with her, and, thus, they'd both keep their power and position. She would have no need to scheme against him, and he would not try to harm her or her status as Queen in any way. He had loved her once, for the love he knew she bore God and His Gospel.

"No, your Majesty. We will never be subdued. God help the one who should _ever_ try to destroy us."

Anne understood. It was a silent agreement, a small measure of peace.

"Yes. God help those who should try and turn against us. My lord Cromwell" she said, and, after giving him a short nod, left the room.

He looked after her, smiling cynically. No, he wouldn't work against her. For now.

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity to Anne, who had just emerged from her chambers where she had quickly freshened up, trumpets sounded outside, signalling the arrival of the king's royal guard before the palace.

Brandon, the doctors, and John Seymour, who had been riding ahead, dismounted from their horses and turned around to oversee Henry's save transportation into the building.

Anne's heart cringed as she saw him, lying motionlessly on a wooden litter, his eyes closed. He was still in his armour, and she longed to free him of that prison. He must be feeling terrible.

She was standing at the entrance to Greenwich's grand foyer, and greeted the three men as they neared her, the guards carrying Henry following closely behind.

"Your Grace", she addressed Brandon formerly, then led the way to the King's chambers. The great hall as well as her and Henry's private chambers had been cleared of almost all people who were normally present there. Anne had demanded absolute privacy for his Majesty, allowing only the most important servants and officials to remain in the rooms.

Her father and brother, to whom she had shortly spoken in her rooms but minutes ago, awaited them in front of the door to the King's bed chamber.

"Your Majesty. Your Grace." The earl greeted his daughter and the duke. They waited until the whole group had entered the room and went inside last, purposefully locking out John Seymour, who remained outside, startled.

"Who does he think he is?" George muttered. "Just because his bloody bitch of a daughter has caught the King's eye he shouldn't be acting as if he were Moses himself. Oh, pardon me, perhaps I should say St. Michael. Isn't that one of the fellows those damned catholics believe in?" He smiled mockingly. "Well, Sir John, we certainly don't need you here."

Thomas Boleyn gave him an icy stare. "Stop talking nonsense. We have more important things to think about!"

* * *

The next hours passed quickly. Anne watched anxiously as the group of court physicians examined Henry again and again, analysing his wounds and the effects.

All the while, the King never opened his eyes. He was asleep, and Anne was glad, for the accident and the commotion must have exhausted him.

His left leg had been injured when he had fallen into the banister on the tiltyard and the horse on top of him, and now a serious and deep wound blemished the smooth skin of his thigh. The spot where the lance hit his skull did not bleed anymore, but a large bump was clearly visible. Luckily though, he did not have any broken limbs or other bad injuries, only a few minor bruises.

"Your Majesty", Doctor Linacre, the most renowned of the physicians, addressed the Queen when they had finished their examinations.

"The King has a severe leg wound, some bruises and scratches and probably an extreme headache. It is a miracle the thrust of the lance against his skull did not smash his brain, but it seems as if the contact did not harm him. When he's awake, I will examine him once more and try to find out more about his pains."

"What about his … his memory?" Anne whispered. Linacre was the only one they had informed about Henry's probable loss of remembrance. He was the only one of the doctors who could be trusted.

"Madame, I am no specialist in the field of occurrences such as the loss of memory. But I may find someone who has a better knowledge of the subject. For now, we must wait until his Majesty wakes up, so that we can see what he remembers and what not."

Anne nodded, then ordered the physicians out of the room. They were received by Cromwell who demanded a complete report of the examination, so that a medical record could be written down.

Thomas and George Boleyn retreated to the privy chamber, where upset courtiers were trying to break into the king's private rooms, so desperate were they for information.

Hence, Anne was left in the room with only her sleeping husband and Charles Brandon. She watched the duke quietly, unsure how to act around him, and not knowing how he would behave in her presence.

He seemed to be on his guard, too, eyeing her curiously with a look of absolute suspicion. It drove her crazy, but she kept her cool. She pondered with the idea of ordering him out, but maybe it was the wrong thing to do.

"Please, be seated." She said instead, pointing at a nearby chair. He obeyed.

She tried to initiate a conversation, but nothing suitable came to mind, and so she merely smiled a little and went over to Henry's giant four-poster bed. Gingerly, she took a seat on the mattress and reached out to touch his face.

Her heart constricted as she felt the heat radiating from his skin. How she loved him. If only he awake from his slumber so she could talk to him, soothe him. She would shoulder all his burdens now, be there for him. He was her all.

She felt Brandon's eyes boring into her back, but she did not care. She took Henry's left hand and kissed it tenderly. "My love," she whispered, "come back to me."

She got up to kiss his brow, still holding his hand. Suddenly, it was to her as if her squeezed it and she heard him murmur.

"Anne" she heard him say, clearly now.

She sank down next to him, relieved. "Yes, my love. I'm here. I'm with you." She replied, a bright smile on her face.

Brandon appeared next to them, smiling down at Henry.

"Charles" Henry said, visibly delighted. "You're here, too."

"Yes, I am, your Ma – Henry." He corrected himself, partly because Anne gave him a dark look and a voice inside him told him not to frighten his friend. After all, Henry hardly remembered being the King. King of England and France. Oh God.

"Where am I?" Henry asked, struggling to sit up. He moaned out loud as a sharp pain surged through his leg. "God, what is that?" He stared at the wound, then remembered the accident. That explained the excruciating headache, too.

"Oh God" he muttered, running a hand over the bandaged wound and then through his head.

"It's alright" he heard a soft voice. "Everything is going to be alright." He looked into those sparkling eyes, finding comfort in their blue depths.

She was here. The beauty. Anne Boleyn.

"Anne" he said again, as if in trance. "Where am I? What is this all about? All I know is…all I remember is the accident and then waking up in the pavilion. God, I…"

"Shh", she interrupted him, as if he were a child. He was not himself. He needed all the comfort he could get. "You are in your chambers at Greenwich palace."

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Something was very familiar about it, but he could not say without a doubt that he remembered this room. He was lying in a giant bed, supporting by fine pillows and covered by expensive blankets. The room was endowed with tasteful mahogany furniture and other beautiful items, grand mirrors, carpets and arrases, gigantic candle holders and several sitting accommodations. Long velvet curtains had been drawn before the windows, blocking most of the sunlight. All in all, it was an impressive room, well-provided with everything, furnished with only the best things available. A room fit for a monarch, he thought. And this was his room?

He noticed the pitiful look in Anne and Charles' eyes, and suddenly he remembered something. Something special.

_"You are Henry VIII, son of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, by the Grace of God, king of England and France, Defender of the Faith, supreme head of the Church of England…."_

Charles had told him so, in the pavilion. Charles, yes. He did not know why, but he knew Charles, he knew he was the Duke of Suffolk, and old and trusted friend.

But this… this was too much to be borne. He looked around again, not knowing if he should cry or laugh. He was a King? King of England? It was a thought no one who just had such an accident would be able to fathom. It was a monstrous thought.

A king. A lord among men. A monarch of royal blood. Henry VIII. A king who had no remembrance of his own life. Who did not know who he was.

"My God," he whispered more to himself than to the others,"king of England and France."

He buried his hands in his face, a gesture so unusual for the Henry they knew that Anne and Charles shared a worried look. Then, thinking that maybe actions would speak more clearly than words, Anne got up and curtsied. Brandon, seeing what she was up to, bowed low.

"Long live your Majesty" Charles intoned.

Henry looked at them, totally startled. This was a bad, bad dream. A nightmare. Surely he would wake up any minute and find out it was all just a dream.

He looked so pitiful, so unlike himself that Anne sat down next to him again and took his hand, kissing it. "It's alright. We will help you. The Duke of Suffolk and I." Her voice was calm. She had to be strong now. For him.

She watched him as he adjusted to this knew knowledge, the knowledge that he was a king. She pitied him. He had lost his memory, all those precious memories of past triumphs, defeats, losses, achievements.

She rose to get him something to drink from the nightstand.

"Don't leave me" she heard him say.

"I'm not leaving…" She said, gently. She got the drink and gave it to him, watching as he drank. When she took it from him, he leaned back, grimacing slightly as a wave of pain rushed through his leg and head.

After a few minutes of silence, Anne decided that perhaps it would be better if someone informed Cromwell and her family that the King was awake.

She turned to Brandon. "Your Grace. My lord Secretary Cromwell, my father and my brother must be informed. The King is awake and must be examined by the doctors once more. And do inquire after the specialists, I pray you."

There was a calm authority in her voice, but no malice, and for once in his life he easily complied with her request. She was queenly indeed, he realized.

He bowed and walked out.

"But let only the doctors come inside!" she called after him. "The King needs rest."

"Yes, your Majesty."

When Charles had left and Anne sat down on a nearby chair, Henry contemplated the events of the day. He still could not think clearly, but now, in the quiet of this room, he was able to comprehend at least a small amount of the things happening to him.

He was the King of England, to begin with. Thinking about it, he found that it did not sound unfamiliar, either. It was as if, in another life, he had been addressed like this a thousand times. But his brain found no collection to his old life, there was nothing to hold on to. There was only this room and this horrible confusion and total irony of the situation.

The only real thing right now was _her._ He watched her intently as she sat there, so elegant in her dark dress. She was not wearing a veil anymore, but the tiara still sparkled on her dark head. Her jewels glistened in the faint sunlight that made it into the room through a slit between the curtains. She was so very beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of her.

And then it hit him. Since his awakening in this chamber, he had been too confused and then too shocked to think of who she was, but now he did. Who was she? Anne Boleyn. The name was sensuous and elegant and struck a chord of familiarity, as so many things he was confronted with, but no matter how much he tried, he did not remember her.

But he had dreamed of her and recognized her immediately when he woke up in the pavilion earlier this day, so surely she played an important role in his life.

Maybe she was his sister. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes. But no, that was not possible. She had called him her "love". His mistress, maybe? She had introduced herself to him with her maiden name, so surely she was not married. Yes, maybe she was his mistress. But why would Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, bow to a mere mistress, and why did she order him as if she were a monarch herself? It was confusing.

All he knew was that she was enchanting.

She noticed his penetrating gaze now, saw the questions in his eyes, and frowned.

"Anne - " Henry started, but was interrupted by Doctor Linnegar who entered the room with another man by his side. Anne quickly went over to them.

Henry noticed that they bowed to her and said her name, but it was not possible to understand everything. Then, Anne retreated to the other end of the room, next to the stove, where she stood still. The doctors went over to Henry.

"Your Majesty", the doctor began, taking a bow. "I am Doctor Linacre, one of your court physicians. And this" he glanced at the man beside him, "is Doctor Bowles, a specialist in the field of the loss of memory. Do we have your permission to examine you?"

"You have my permission" Henry stated with a nod, and Anne smiled at his imperious reply. He certainly had not lost his regal charisma.

Dr. Linacre looked carefully at Henry's wounds and asked where the pain was the most dreadful, before recommending some concoctions that might help.

Then, it was Doctor Bowles' turn.

"Your Majesty, what is the last thing you remember from before the accident?"

"Nothing … there's nothing. Only riding across the tilt yard and then falling off of the horse."

Bowles frowned slightly. "I see. So you have no recollection whatsoever of the life you led before the accident?"

"None." He stated flatly. What good was this questioning for?

He answered all the questions that followed, his impatience growing. No, he did not remember his reign as King of England, no he did not remember anyone except Charles…

"Not even Queen Anne?" Bowles asked.

Henry's head shot up. He met Anne's eyes over the doctor's head. They shared a long, curious look, watching each another carefully.

Henry swallowed. So this was it.

_Queen Anne._

He stared at her, transfixed. This beauty, this living rapture was his wife? Why had she not told him?

"_Henry… Henry… my love."_

Everything was clear now. He understood. That's why she was in this room with him, the closest to a king anyone could get. That's why Brandon did what she asked of him.

The doctor kept asking things, and he answered automatically, without listening.

He was shocked, but then, looking at Anne's beautiful face, Henry smiled. A surge of happiness momentarily overwhelmed him. He was married. It must be a happy marriage for she had called him "love" and he had seen her in his dreams as his lover. All of sudden, at the sight of her, the prospect of living without a memory did not seem altogether bleak any longer.

Seeing his smile, she smiled back. Finally, Bowles bowed to the King.

"Your Majesty, you have indeed lost your memory."

"Oh really" Henry murmured, unnerved. He wanted to be alone with Anne.

Anne laughed.

"Yes," the doctor rallied on, "but I'm afraid I cannot say whether it will be only temporary or not. We will see. I pray God for your Majesty's swift convalescence… in every aspect." Henry thanked him and waved him out.

When the door fell shut, Anne approached the bed. "So now you know" she said calmly, a little unsure of herself. What was he thinking?

He smiled that crooked smile of his that used to make her heart beat faster in their early years. And indeed, her heart sped up a little at the sight of it.

"Yes, now I know. Now I know I'm married to England's greatest beauty."

She bathed in the flattery, like one thirsting. Sitting down next to him, she took his hand without hesitation and kissed it.

"I'm sorry for not telling you. But I wanted to – "

"I understand." He interrupted her. "And I'm sorry. Sorry for having that stupid accident."

Anne leaned closer. "I was so worried, so afraid. So worried you might… you might die."

On impulse, he kissed her hand, revelling in the softness of her skin. "I'm a fool, I guess. Whose lance sent me off the horse's back, anyway?"

He felt her squirm, as if the question made her uncomfortable. "Sir Henry Norris. He is one of your courtiers. But let us not talk of Norris now."

He nodded, eager to make her feel at ease. He did not know why, but for some reason he wanted to befriend her by all means possible. It felt good to be with her, to have her near. It was like coming home. And he could not be alone now. There were too many questions.

"Have we been married long?"

"Oh, no. Three years. But our courtship began a long, long time ago." She said, a far-away smile on her lips. Nostalgia overwhelmed her. If only Henry knew what they had been through.

She had no desire to tell him the whole story now, though. It was too painful. Indeed, she had no desire to speak of any private things now, things that cut too deep. She had to drag him away from this topic.

"There will be a lot of commotion in the following days. I'll explain everything to you at a later date. I promise. I know this is difficult but you are the King of England. A very beloved King. Everyone is worried about you."

"I'm beloved of the people?" he asked.

"You are indeed. The most cherished King there ever was. And that's why it is so important that you recover soon. As long as you remain in your chambers to rest, Secretary Cromwell and I will take care of everything. That is, if you please, your Majesty." She finished, remembering who he was, no matter the state he was in.

"Of course. You are my wife, aren't you? I leave it all to your care. But I don't remember Secretary Cromwell."

Anne smiled. "He is your most faithful servant. You'll get to know him soon. And my father, the Earl of Wiltshire, and my brother George, Lord Rochford. Ah, and another special guest, who will arrive soon" she said with a wink.

"A special guest? Who is that? Tell me" he said, leaning forward, wondering who that person might be.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll see." The thought of Elizabeth warmed her. Hopefully Henry would accept her, but she did not really worry about that. Theirs was such a sweet and clever child, he would love her for sure.

"Rest now, I beg you" she continued. "I will send your servants in. I must arrange for some things."

"Where are you going? " he asked.

"Only to my rooms. And, please, just pretend that you remember your servants. They need not know that you've lost your memory. Not now. You see? I talked to Cromwell about it, and he agreed with me that it would be better to keep it secret as long as possible. We'll just pretend."

"I see. I'll be the best actor you've ever seen." He said with a smile. Then, on impulse, he added: "Would you send Secretary Cromwell in?" He wanted to talk to that man. He had to make some things clear.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I am. And, Anne?" he said when she already turned around to leave the room. "Come back soon."

She smiled. "I will."

"Open the curtains" Henry told one of the servants that had been sent in. He was surprised how easy the command came to his lips t, almost naturally. As if commanding was part of his very being.

The servant obeyed, and Henry enjoyed the faint sunlight streaming in through the large windows. He stretched, then quickly straightened himself as one of servants announced: "Your Majesty, Secretary Cromwell is here to see you."

Henry nodded.

The man who entered the room was rather tall, dark-haired and had a very serious expression on his face. He bowed elegantly and took a seat next to the bed when the King motioned him to do so.

"Your Majesty" Cromwell said in his deep, melodious voice. "You sent for me."

"Secretary Cromwell" Henry replied. "I did indeed. This is a peculiar situation, but, as King of England, I must take action, no matter how difficult it may be. My… Queen Anne told me of your loyalty to me and of your knowledge and ability in matters of state. I trust you will help me. Not only in regaining my memory, but also in ruling this country, since I do not remember much of my past life."

Cromwell inclined his head. "Your Majesty, you can rely on me in every possible way. I will do my best to assist you and rest assured that I am ever comfortable to your will and pleasure."

Henry watched him keenly. There was something mysterious about this man, something dark and sinister. He was obviously intelligent, chose his words carefully and spoke with accuracy. But all in all, he was somewhat inscrutable. But Henry was not appalled or disappointed in any way – he was eager to find out who this fellow really was. It remained to be seen.

"As my Secretary, I suppose you are well-informed about everything that happens not only in England, but also in my private life."

"Indeed, your Majesty, I dare say that I am."

"So, tell me then – who is King Henry? What is he like? The Queen told me I was beloved of my people..." It was awkward to inquire after oneself like that, but what could a man do?

Cromwell smiled. "You are. Ever since you came to the throne in 1509, the people of England have loved you and served you whole-heartedly. Surely, there has never been am English king of greater renown…"

The next hour went by swiftly as Cromwell unfolded the story of Henry's realm up until this day, from his ascension to his marriage with Anne Boleyn. He weighed his words carefully, and hid from the King the most important details: his break with Rome, the marriage with Katherine of Aragon and its end, the existence of Mary and Elizabeth Tudor, the non-existence of a male heir. Before he went to the King, he had talked to Anne again, and they both agreed it would be wiser not to mention these things to Henry now.

And so, he told the story of a famous, beloved King, never mentioning the fact that Henry was also known for executing men such as the Duke of Buckingham, whose guilt had never been established. That he was known for discarding his first wife and his true-born daughter. That he was a man who had many faces.

He knew that sooner or later, Henry would either remember these things or be informed of them, but now was not the time to open old wounds. He had to think of his own position, too. For his and Anne's interests, it was better to keep certain things hidden.

He mentioned Wolsey and his fall from grace, leaving out dirty details that were of no meaning now. He talked over England's situation in the past and present and was surprised when Henry remembered most of these things, things that had to do with the realm.

"King Francis…" he said. "I remember him. I wrestled with him – and I lost."

They talked about the development of England in the past years, about the King's many palaces and the court in general. And again, Henry remembered many names and events that were in no way connected to his own private life.

Things of general interest.

"Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace…. yes. I see all these things before my eyes. I know I've been there before…"

Cromwell silently thanked God that Henry never asked about any children he might have or former wives or any of these things. Maybe he assumed that he and Anne were happily married and that they did not have children because their marriage was still rather young.

Somehow, the conversation returned to private topics, and Thomas noticed that the King showed a great interest in anything having to do with Anne Boleyn.

"Yes", Cromwell replied to one of his question, "Queen Anne is the daughter of Thomas Boleyn, whom you made Earl of Wiltshire in 1529, and Elizabeth Howard. She has two siblings, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, and Mary Boleyn."

"I suppose the Earl and the Viscount are important figures at my court?" Henry asked, curious to learn everything there was to know about his wife's family.

"Yes. They are well-known by all as intelligent and clever courtiers. But, I dare say, so is Queen Anne."

The King's eyes lit up. "I thought as much. She is most impressive. Most beautiful."

Thomas gasped inwardly. _So already now he's falling for her again?_

"Indeed", he answered evasively, "Queen Anne excels them all in many ways."

Henry smiled – and decided that he liked this man.

He bade goodbye to Cromwell half an hour later, and was then greeted by Anne, her father and brother, and the Duke of Suffolk. Anne introduced her relatives, who bowed elegantly.

"My lords" Henry greeted them, noticing how refined and noble they looked.

George Boleyn offered his services and spoke of his loyalty. The Earl kissed the King's hand.

Finally, Charles talked to him in his calm voice, telling him that every subject in London was praying for the King, and that the people at court and in all of England were glad to learn that their ruler was alive.

"Thank you, your Grace" Henry said, and for a moment he seemed to be the old Henry, generous and jovial in his best moments.

"Also", Charles continued, "there will be masses held in every chapel in England, to thank God for your salvation."

"I'm glad. And trust me, tomorrow, after a good night's rest, I will present myself to the people at court, even if only for a minute."

When the men were gone and he was alone with Anne, he looked up at her.

"Will you help me tomorrow, my Lady?"

He did not know why, but he felt that he needed her. The thought of facing the next weeks without her somehow seemed unbearable to him.

She smiled that coquette smile that attracted him so much. "Of course I will, your Majesty. Not only tomorrow. Always."

They looked at each other, he with unhidden curiosity and many, many questions in the back of his mind. He needed to get to know her, find out who she really was. She was so beautiful, so fascinating. There was so much he did not understand, so much he wanted to learn about her, about them.

"Thank you" he whispered, and Anne felt as if she had travelled in time. This was a Henry of times gone by. A kind, tender man. All she had ever wanted.

She approached him and leaned down, somehow eager to kiss his lips, but she did not. It was too early. Too early to say where they stood. And so, she merely stroked his cheek once, gently.

"Sleep now" she cooed, "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, and Anne, fearing she might lose her senses, curtsied and hurried out of the room.

In the dimly lit corridor that led away from the King's chambers and to her own, she walked as if in trance, thinking of what had just transpired.

God… how he affected her. How one kiss from that lips drove her mad.

She was so lost in thought she did not notice the dark figure approaching her. She shrieked a little when she bumped into him, but was relieved to see it was only her father.

"The King is going to sleep?" he asked her.

"Yes. I bade him goodnight a few minutes ago."

"Very well. God, what a day!" He shook his head. "Can you believe it? And on top of it all, the memory issue. You realize what this means, don't you? Anne?"

She was not listening to him.

"Anne – do you hear me? "Wake up. This is a god-given opportunity, a divine intervention. He has lost his memory. He does not remember your estrangement, he does not even know who you really are. But he will fall for you again. I could see it in his eyes. And why would he not? You seduced him once, you held his heart in your hands… remember? _Your loving servant …_ " he murmured, recalling in his mind all the letters Henry had written to Anne, letters of love and devotion.

He took her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"Sweetheart. You can do it again. Win his love once more, and the past will be forgotten. Don't falter now. This is your chance to win back his heart. Put yourself in his way, woe him with your charms, never leave him alone. Ensnare him. Seduce him. Do you understand me?"

He looked around with his sparkling blue eyes, and the old glimmer of ambition was back in their depths. It was almost too good to be true. The Boleyns would rise again, and this time, nothing would stop them.

Not the Seymours, not the Church, not anyone.

For if Anne managed to regain Henry's love, no one would dare question her status and the rank of her family ever again. And then, she would give the king a son… a son to be the living image of his father, and a living testament of the victory of the Boleyns.

He smiled inwardly, satisfied with himself.

But as his eyes returned to his daughter, his smiled faded. She was not listening. There was a faraway expression on her face, as if her mind was wandering. "Anne! Do you hear me? This is your chance. You mustn't spoil it."

Piercing her with his eyes, urging her on with his impetuous voice, Thomas tried to shake her out of her seeming reverie, but she was obviously too deep in thought. Staring into space, she paid no attention to any of his movements.

He had seen her like this before. Many times during all these years of struggle for the crown and the King's favour, she would close herself up in her own little world, thinking silently with an absent-minded countenance. Often, she had come out of such musings strengthened, jovial, reborn. Then she would smile and reassure them all of her well-being, and in the evening, she would dance and enjoy herself with more passion and spirit than ever. She would be so bright and happy it was almost frightening.

But there had been other times, too. After her miscarriage, Boleyn had watched his daughter spend her days torturing herself with her old fear of downfall and disgrace. Hours and hours she would spend on her own, speculating on the most obscure consequences of her failure, ever pondering the same dubious questions. 

_What will I do? What will Henry do? Don't you know the prophecy… 'A Queen of England will be burnt'? _

Yes, many times her thinking had caused her nothing but misery, and he sincerely hoped it was not the case now. He looked at her with calm serenity, something rarely seen in his usually blank face, and felt something akin to understanding.

It had never been easy for her – all these years of fighting and manipulating. She had brought them so far with her strength and courage, and he noticed once more that she, in a way, was much like him. From him she had inherited a sharp wit, a great passion for life, and above all, an undying ambition.

He was not an angel, to be sure, but even in his cold heart there still was some human emotion. He was not as heartless and cruel as every one presumed – for he certainly felt for Anne, and she had always been his favourite.

For sure, she was a ball in his game, an actress in the play the Boleyns were performing at court every godforsaken day - and yet there was more. He could not identify his feelings for her as pure, fatherly love, for he had never felt such a thing in all his life, but deep inside he cared for her and desired for her only the best of lives, the greatest of futures. Yes indeed – he had always wanted her to be healthy, fortunate, content: _the most happy._

Even now, in this hour, he felt compassion for her, but this was no time to muse. It was time for her to spread her wings and fly back into the arms of a most beloved king, and thusly, become once more the most powerful woman ever to have been queen consort of England. It was Anne's time to shine, and, as God was his witness, he would see to it that she used this opportunity. She owed it to him, to her brother, to her family. They had paved her way to the throne. Now, for the love she bore them all, she had to act immediately, and with powerful determination. This divine chance must not be lost, and he prayed God for His mercy and guidance.

He put all his trust in his own abilities and Anne's charms, and he silently swore that from now on, until his dying day, the Boleyns would never fall from grace.

_Never… as long as life endures. _

The thought of victory engulfed him, and he momentarily forgot whatever tender feelings he had for Anne. He was impatient, eager to push her back into the King's open arms. They had to act, now.

He grabbed her slender shoulders and shook her forcefully. "Anne! Are you not listening? For heaven's sake, don't be a fool. Destiny grants you one more chance."

He looked down into her pale face and saw there no recognition. And he could not, for Anne's soul was in turmoil.

"One more chance… one more chance", she whispered absently, more to herself than to her father.

Yes, indeed. This was her chance. A unique opportunity to rise again like a phoenix from the ashes, like a soul from the dead. A moment of destiny and fortune.

Years ago, she had taken a court and a king's love by storm, and she could do it again. Was she not known throughout the country as the great seductress, the passion of the King, _the Boleyn whore? _The greatest prince of Christendom had fallen for her and sworn to her his love and devotion, and she would make him do it again.

In her sharp mind, a plan was beginning to take shape, and she thought quickly. There was no man on earth who could stop her if she really set her mind upon this mission, if she planned it carefully and arranged everything with the intelligence and female instinct that represented her, as did the raven hair and the notorious gusto for French fashion.

Within a month or two, Henry would fall to his feet, begging her to return his affection. A rush of self-confidence came over her, a natural pride in her qualities she had almost forgotten over these last few months of strain and anxiety.

She was no little English rose with milky skin and a devout smile, no sweet naïve blonde, yielding to a man's every command – oh, never that! She was sensuous and exotic, fiery and passionate, different from all others. She could make him feel things no one else could make him feel.

Thinking about herself and Henry's lost love for her, she was reminded of something he had once written to her in a letter in the beginning of their acquaintance.

"_Perhaps you don't understand… but I can't sleep. I can't breathe for thinking of you. Your image is before my eyes every waking second…" _

Yes, it was possible. He would fall for her again, but she must not make mistakes. Not this time. She would have to play this game of love and seduction with accuracy and speed. All those years ago she had caught his eye in a masquerade, and it had not left her for a decade. She had managed to attract his attention within minutes, so why should she not be able to charm him now, and catch him like a spider catches a fly? If she acted with conviction and cleverness, he would be drawn to her like a moth to a flame…

But still, a nagging voice inside her head questioned, was there truly a chance? To turn the tides?

Henry was as unpredictable as a violent storm, never to be underestimated, not even when he was as vulnerable as he was now.

Suddenly her father cleared his throat and reminded her of his presence. She looked up and noticed the familiar look of pride and ambition in his eyes, those orbs she had so often searched in vain for true warmth and gentle kindness, the sort of pure love other fathers had for their daughters.

She knew him well, and although she had caught only half of his ramblings, she knew what he expected of her. With ease she managed to bestow on him her most charming smile, her eyes glimmering with a mirth she did not feel.

"Of course, Papa. I understand. I understand completely."

His face brightened a little and he nodded, letting her go. "Good. Remember…"

Her eyes narrowed and she spoke with finality. "I know. I'll find a way. But excuse me now, Father. I'm tired. And I need to think – alone." She raised her head proudly, daring him to defy her.

But, to her surprise, he merely took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "As you wish." He patted her cheek awkwardly, as if she were still his small daughter of five years, and not the queen of England. "I'll see you later."

And with this, he bowed low and made way for her. "Your Majesty."

Anne inclined her head stiffly and left him alone in the cold of the corridor.

* * *

In her rooms, she took a seat by the fireplace, a glass of wine in her hand. Behind her, Nan and Madge were busy preparing everything for the night, eyeing their Mistress curiously, but Anne did not notice. Enjoying the taste of the fine liquid running down her throat, she lost herself in her thoughts.

She remembered the long years of courtship, the way Henry had lusted after her. Their relationship had always been passionate, daring and controversial. She missed those days when they had been on good terms. She had been happy then, in the first two years of their marriage, grateful and delighted to be the wife of such a glorious man, a man who was her perfect match and partner in so many ways. They had spent so many cheerful moments in good company, lavishing each other with gifts and turning a blind eye to the disapproving glances of all the world.

Ah, those pleasant days when she was truly content, sure of Henry's unconditional love, save in his heart. Then, he loved none but her.

She knew with certainty that she had been the only one for him – but during their courtship she had also gotten to know the different layers of his character and his somewhat twisted logic. Henry was capable of love, indeed. When he loved, he loved with an all-consuming devotion, a true and heartfelt affection. He had a genuine interest in other people's minds and opinions, and his generosity was boundless. He could be a loving friend, a great romantic and tender lover.

But he was also a king, and a selfish one. A price was attached to his love, and it was never easy to be his companion, for he demanded ultimate loyalty and submission to his will. What he wanted he would get, this way or the other. And those who defied him played a dangerous game.

It was true, for many years he had succumbed to her will, respected her above all others and cared for her opinions and views of the world. He had given her everything and sacrificed even more. He put her on a pedestal and saw in her the embodiment of female perfection.

But, later, following her coronation, this ultimate love had changed. He had been reminded of her promise to give him a son, of everything he had sacrificed in order to make her his wife and queen. He had still felt deeply for her, but not with the same recklessness as before. And then, when she had failed to give him an heir and the passion between them cooled, he started to tire of her and her bossy ways, her stuck-up attitude, which he had tolerated before because he had been so caught in her web and regarded her as the future mother of his prince, the most splendid queen England had ever known.

In these past months, his demeanour towards her had changed even more. He had turned his back on her and yearned for another woman, the accursed Jane Seymour, and the carefree days were gone.

Anne had known this, seeing the dangerous position she had manoeuvred herself into – the extravagant wife who had failed to produce a son and was losing the favour of her husband. And while she had struggled to behave herself and pretend to be the dignified queen she knew Henry wanted her to be, the loss of his affection and the threat of Jane Seymour's omnipresence had strained her to no end.

But now – now she was back at the beginning.

It was an intriguing challenge, and not an easy one. For Henry was dangerous. He was powerful and headstrong, she was sure that was something unchangeable about him, no matter the accident. He might have forgotten details, but somehow, she found herself unable to belief that a loss of memory would change the very core of his being.

Never predictable, he could be as warm as the sun one moment, glowing and majestic, full of mercy and grace, and, in an instant, turn into a man as cold, brutal and ruthless that it could frighten even the bravest of courtiers. It was part of his character, this sudden change of emotion and attitude, these violent outbursts of rage following moments of goodwill and serenity; it was part of his lure.

She knew him and the struggle attached to loving him, the fear and the pressure, and yet, she could not let go. There was something thrilling about him, something sensual in those startlingly blue eyes of his that she had never seen before in any other man, something wild and unbridled that drew her in. He was passionate and shrewd, bold and vivacious, like herself.

The thought of him brought a rush of longing and love, as it always did. She saw clearly before her eyes, his slender body, the slightly tanned complexion, the dark hair, the fine clothing. She recalled the way he walked, confidently, head held high, his gaze complimenting her beauty as he strode towards her. She recalled, also, the tenderness and loyalty he was capable of, the gentle love he had bestowed on her that always made her forget his dark side lurking just beneath the surface.

Had there ever been another man of his kind? A man who could stir in a woman a wide range of emotions from the most tender love to the most jarring anger, from fierce loyalty to cold and bitter jealousy. He was magnificent... tender, jovial, kind - and yet so complex, so terribly dangerous. Surely, the most dangerous lover of all time.

The prospect of seducing this man once more, under these lucky circumstances, enchanted her.

One more chance.

She smiled almost eagerly, the corners of her mouth turning but slightly upwards.

As she sat there gazing at the dying embers of the fire, she whispered into the dimly lit room: "And so it begins."


	8. A life so changed

**Chapter 6 : A life so changed  
**

* * *

The next morning dawned quietly, eerily. Faint rays of lilac and orange slowly made their way out of the darkness and into the rooms of the palace, where all was strangely still, as though everyone behind those walls who had the luxury to do so was desirous to linger in bed just a little longer, wondering what this day would bring.

Only the servants, ever bound to duty and obligation, were up and about, but they moved on silent feet, unwilling to disturb the peculiar noiselessness. They sensed rather than knew that this was an important day. For the king, for England. For all of them.

Naturally, they were worried. The death of a king was always a tragedy, a tragedy that had been prevented this time, thank God. His Grace had survived – but at the court of England, you never knew what a new day might bring. Fortune or downfall - it was a never-ending surprise. Even the "mere" accident of a ruler could have dire consequences: instability and intrigue, for a weak king usually meant a weak system, and it was not above eager courtiers to take their chances when the right time came.

Outside the palace, a lonesome gardener was already awake and preparing for his daily task. Before reaching down to inspect some flowers he had been worried about for weeks, he turned towards the palace, raised his head and gazed up at the strong stone walls behind which the King and Queen, and all the other nobles, were still lying in their warm beds. He knew he was but a servant, in no position to judge or ask questions, and he always kept his thoughts to himself. But think he did, quite often, and ever since the king's dreadful accident he had not stopped worrying and thinking about what would happen in the days to come. He did not know much, merely essentials, like almost everyone else who did not belong to the inner circle that surrounded his Majesty. But what he did know, was that the king had been crushed by his horse and very likely hurt and gravely ill, though out of immediate danger. No one knew any specifics, which was frustrating, but what could a man of lesser birth do? They were all but servants of the Crown and had to be satisfied with what they heard from other staff or those who had influential masters close to the king.

In any case, the gardener knew for sure that his Grace was inside the palace and probably still asleep. It would be immensely interesting to see the king again, or at least to have some news, for no one really knew how he was doing. Yesterday, only the doctors, Secretary Cromwell, the Duke of Suffolk and the Boleyn men had been allowed to attend on him. And, of course, the Queen.

Right now, everything was quiet, but it was only a matter of time before tongues would start wagering. Anne Boleyn was not beloved of the people, and, so the gardener figured, gently touching the petals of a beautiful rose, it remained to be seen what was to become of her. Gossip had been spreading over the last few months that she was losing influence. And yet, she was the one tending to the king now, behind those walls that hid so many secrets from lesser men.

It was all very peculiar.

The gardener shook himself out of his reverie and startled. In his musings, he had twisted so hard that the rose had been broken. Its crown, so beautiful, so proud, had been severed from the stem.

* * *

In his spacious bedchamber, blissfully unaware of the musing of his subjects, Henry the Eighth groaned silently as a single, weak ray of sunshine made its way through a space between the thick curtains concealing the large windows. Slowly, he cracked open one eye and blinked at the intrusion of light. He had slept well, and for a fleeting moment he did not remember what had transpired in the last 24 hours. He yawned, opened both eyes and lay there motionlessly, thinking of how beautiful the sunrise must be out there… if only he could draw those curtains and look outside and – _the curtains! _

He sat up abruptly, suddenly wide awake. Incredulous, he stared at them, those long velvet drapes falling lusciously to the wooden floor. They swayed lightly in the faint morning breeze coming in now through one of the windows, and it was to him as if his mind swayed with them - for he had no idea where he was.

He felt panic rise in him, absolute and utter panic. This room was not familiar, and everything in it was so very strange to him. His eyes could not stop roaming frantically. He took in the dark mahogany furniture: tables, a wide desk, expensively cushioned chairs, big chests. Portraits and mirrors on the walls. Everything was placed on thick carpets, there was gold and velvet and other such luxuries everywhere. It was an overload of senses; a room fit for a king, he thought jokingly. He almost laughed and, his mood improved, he lifted his feet out of the bed in order to get up.

He only startled when his feet touched something. Someone, to be exact. He let out a cry as the body beneath him began to move and a boy jumped to his feet, dagger in hand. It was – it was a bodyguard, no, a groom! Something like that. He was wearing a uniform.

The boy breathed heavily. "Your Majesty!"

Henry said nothing. He just said there, utterly lost. He was at a loss for words, he could not move, he could not even think straight. But as he managed to look at the boy's face, something in him triggered. The lad looked up at him with such devotion, such willingness, such …. such worship. The way a servant would look at his master. The way every subject would look at their lord. The thought was too enormous to be borne, and he could not bring himself to say something to the boy. He could only stare at the young face and sit on his huge bed, clad only in his undergarments.

"Your Majesty… are you well? Can I get your Majesty anything?"

The voice of the younger man pierced him like a needle, and he stubbornly fought against what the boy's words implied. Henry refused to hear it. He did not want to listen, he did not want to know.

But, automatically, he replied: "I'm alright. It's nothing… just a bad dream. And yes, get me a glass of wine."

_Where did that come from?_ He wondered. He watched in silence as the lad poured some wine into one of the goblets and came back to the bed, drink in hand. He handed it to Henry and bowed low. "Majesty," he said simply, then just stood there waiting for an order. But Henry was unable to say anything else. In his despair, he only managed to wave the boy away. When the groom did not move immediately, he yelled out of the blue: "Out! Out!"

When the door finally fell shut behind theyoung man, Henry gulped the entire content of the silver chalice and collapsed back into the pillows. The goblet fell out of his hand and landed on the floor with a thud.

Henry wished fervently to be in a dark place with nothing and nobody except himself in it. He longed for silence and peace of mind, but it was impossible. His mind was in turmoil, and as he looked up at the carvings in the great bed, unable to block out reality any longer, he finally admitted to himself that the boy was his servant, this was his room, and he was … _Say it. Say it._

He was King.

So much was obvious, and somewhere in his mind the fact that he was a noble lord rang a bell. He knew that, and, as all his senses were slowly returning to him, he could not help thinking that at least some things in this room looked familiar, and the manner in which he had given orders to the boy had seemed only natural. He just could not make a connection between this morning and yesterday, and struggled in vain to remember. Little did he know that his troubled mind was trying to protect itself by blocking out the harsh truth.

It was half an hour later that memory returned. He had finally managed to get up and was drawing the curtains when the images returned. The light of the sun, now relatively bright, almost blinded him, used to the darkness as his eyes still were. It was like a flash of lightning, and with it came the knowledge of what had transpired yesterday.

_The accident. Pain. Unconsciousness. Waking up in this very room. _

At the thought of what had happened to him, what he had been through and the stress of it all, he touched his forehead as if struck by a headache and slowly sank to his knees. What was he to do? Where to start? What was there that mattered? And, most importantly, whom could he turn to?

He heard a knock. Confused, he pulled himself together and stood up.

"Who is it?" he asked meekly. God, he hated himself.

And then he heard it. _That_ voice. It was like a light in a dark tunnel.

"It's me, Anne. May I come in?"

Before he knew it, he was at the door, still in nothing but his nightclothes. He pulled the door open and saw her. The last amount of dignity in him stopped him from throwing himself to the very ground at her feet, begging her to hold him. Instead, he simply whispered, "Anne."

She curtsied, not sure how much formality was appropriate, but, seeing the tormented look in his eyes, rose quickly and looked at him as he stood there in the doorway. She was worried beyond belief and cut not bear seeing him like this, so obviously confused and, dare she say it, frightened.

"May I come in?" She gave him her most beautiful smile. Above everything, she wanted him to feel comfortable in her presence.

"Oh. Do forgive me," he said and made way for her. He breathed in her lovely scent as she walked past him. Quickly, he closed the door and went over to the bed, where he sat down and watched her strolling about the room. He remembered so well now how she had stood by him yesterday, how she had comforted him. His wife! The thought was still new and awkward, but he sensed that nothing could give him more pleasure than to be with her as he was now, missing not a single gesture of hers.

She was so very beautiful. So very desirable.

Her lithe and lissom body moved lightly yet with the boldness of some wild thing, a contrast that gave her a strong physical presence he could not help but be drawn to. She was elegant and cultured; the very lifting of her proud dark head told of her good breeding. But there was something rash and daring about her, too, something strong and stalwart that belied the easiness of her stance. Hers was such an easy grace; the grace of a wildcat lounging lazily in the sun, the grace of a deadly predator ready to strike.

There was something deep and dangerous in Anne... those eyes of hers were like dark hooks for the soul.

"What… how…" he began but trailed off. It was strange. He felt a desperate desire in him to talk, talk endlessly, but he could not find the words.

Anne knew what he wanted to know. "Last night, before you went to bed, I instructed your boy to inform me as soon as you woke up. He came to me with the information. I then sent him off to report to my lord Secretary Cromwell. Don't worry, he won't come back, that is, unless you want him to. I have dismissed all of your servants for two days, all except a few of your most trusted grooms, hoping to attend on you myself in your private chambers. Well, myself and the Secretary, also the Duke of Suffolk and your doctors."

"Very well. I think I'll be in need of some privacy." Henry managed a small smile. The Secretary was Cromwell, he remembered. They had talked about Anne. And Suffolk was Charles, yes, good old Charles! What a relief to know someone, to be reminded of someone's face just hearing their name.

"I will look after you, if you'll only let me," Anne went on. "It is all about recovery now… and, God knows, I pray every minute that you'll get well soon."

He could see real, raw feeling in her eyes and it touched him deeply. Here was someone who was truly worried on his behalf, praying and hoping for him. The state of shock and confusion he was in was so much easier to bear now, knowing he had the support of a woman so loyal to him.

He smiled graciously. "Of course I'll let you look after me. Aren't you my wife?"

She did not answer. Her lips twisted for just a second and her eyes fell before she plastered a smile onto her face, or so it seemed to Henry. A long silence followed his words. They looked at each other, both of them confused, wondering what the other was thinking.

Anne looked at him, the man she knew so well,and yet did not know any more. Who was he, now that a tragic accident had robbed him of his memories of her, of them and their hurricane union? And she thought, _"Yes, I am your true wedded wife, and I love you. We were happy once. But then you turned away from me and treated me coldly." _

She was lost in his eyes, those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes. God, she loved him so much. He was so dear to her she was afraid she would not be able to go through with her plan. She had to woe him, seduce him. But did she have the strength? She tried hard to smile, so that he would not know of her inner thoughts. But she sensed it was too late. He knew that something was off.

All Henry knew for sure was that Anne was beautiful, gracious and kind, but he did not know who she truly was. How one could forget a woman of such beauty and character he did not know, but it had happened, and now he was desperate to find out more.

Also, he had no idea what their marriage had been like. Had they been happy before the accident? Had he made her unhappy? For, despite her brave and friendly display, he sensed that something was not quite right. At times she seemed uneasy, as if not quite sure how he was going to treat her. Why was that? Was she not the woman by his side, the Queen of England? Just now, when he had asked her whether she was his wife or not, she had reacted oddly.

But maybe it was just nerves, and he was overreacting. Had he been in her place, perhaps he would have reacted the same way. Whatever the reason for her being uneasy, he wanted her to feel comfortable. And he silently vowed to do everything he could to get to know her and make her happy.

"Anne," he said ad looked her straight in the eye. "I'll be needing you. I have no idea what awaits me."

Such an honest confession of anxiety from Henry was rare, and Anne reminded herself of what she had sworn to do. She would help him, guide him, and if God gave her the strength, win back his love somehow.

"Of course, your Majesty. I am your Majesty's true and loyal subject, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure." (She thought that perhaps some modesty and obedience were appropriate and might be favourable to her cause.) "But I shall also be your friend."

She smiled then, and Henry rejoiced in it. Yes, with her by his side, he would make it_. _

_I shall conquer this_, he thought. _I shall._

* * *

They continued chatting about this and that and it gave Henry a great deal of pleasure to talk to Anne. She was bright and clever, her ideas refreshing, her manners of speech impeccable.

He told her he had no objections to having a few selected grooms serve him, but they agreed that none of the servants should know of the his loss of memory. Not now. Not ever.

The boy was called back to help Henry get dressed and ready for the day. Anne left the room for a short while to sent a messenger each to Cromwell and Brandon, asking them to join her and his Majesty in the king's private rooms.

Half an hour later, they were all sitting at the great table where Henry usually had his meals, waiting for breakfast to be served. Henry looked well in a grey vest and discreet jewellery of the highest quality. Anne was sitting next to him and made it her mission to smile reassuringly and take his hand every now and then. Every time she did this, she was shocked at the things the touch of his skin made her feel. It felt good, so good it scared her. But to the outside, she kept her cool. She had always been a talented actress. Cromwell and Brandon looked stately in their black clothes, and Anne wondered what they must be thinking.

The meal itself was quite good, and they all ate in silence for a while. Henry, who felt a deep connection with Brandon and had decided yesterday that he liked Cromwell as well, was not really nervous, especially because he had Anne with him. But he was not sure how to initiate a conversation. He was still struggling with the knowledge of being King of England, and the responsibility, the opportunities and the power such a title brought with it. He did not want to say anything wrong.

That, in itself, was so unusual for the Henry they knew that the two visitors did not quite know what to make of it. It would be interesting to see how all this would turn out, and they were both anxious to use the influence they had on the king, or hoped to still have.

Finally, the Duke of Suffolk took heart. "Your Majesty, if I may," he said, smiling at his old friend. Henry nodded cautiously.

"Has your Majesty considered the great desire all of your subjects have to see you after this dreadful accident? I understand the need for seclusion after such a tragedy, but I think there's great unease among your courtiers, and the lesser folk as well."

Henry struggled, but before the kindness and encouragement in his friend's eyes, he felt a lot better. "I had hoped to gather my thoughts, to contemplate… to lock myself away for a day or two, before showing myself to my – subjects."

He stole a glance at Anne, who smiled benevolently. He then looked expectantly at his Secretary, whose inscrutable eyes were strangely comforting.

Cromwell, who never missed anything, secretly marvelled at the great influence the Queen seemed to have won over Henry in so short a time, and he realized he would have to fight for Henry's goodwill and love once more. But he was willing to do so, knowing that Anne wanted it too and would not stand in his way. What Brandon would do he could only guess, but he would worry about the duke's strategy in this game later. He thought how clever it would be to indulge Henry's every whim, to tell him that it would be best to shut himself away from the world. He felt the urge to defy Brandon's words and agree with the king but, on the other hand, he understood Suffolk's worries.

The people wanted to see their king. Henry had always been popular. Despite his temper, his rage, even his cruelty at times, the people loved him and were anxious to see him healthy and alive, as merry and vivacious as ever. It would be wise to grant them their wish, to let them see their sovereign. Also, a public appearance would be a sign to everyone: Here is Henry, King of England. Never to be subdued. Never to be conquered.

"Your Majesty, I am afraid I have to agree with my lord Suffolk. Already, your court is buzzing. Everyone is desirous to see your Grace. It would be wise to consider a public appearance as soon as your Majesty feels well enough to present yourself to your people," Cromwell concluded.

He saw Henry looking at him defiantly, his lips set in a tight line, and he almost laughed. So the old Henry was not dead yet. But his inner mirth soon subsided, and he grew anxious. He could not afford a rift with the king at such an early stage. He started to open his mouth to revoke his suggestion, when the Queen suddenly cleared her throat and laid a hand on Henry's arm.

"Perhaps we can find a compromise. If it be his Majesty's wish to be alone for a while, to shut himself away, then we should all be ready to obey." She lowered her eyes in respect. "I cannot see the harm in a day or two of seclusion. But it is true that everyone at court is worried about your Majesty's health. Therefore I think your Grace should consider receiving, at certain intervals, some more or less important people in your private chambers. Should your Grace feel like sleeping, reading, or being completely alone, then so be it. But whenever you feel up to it, you could talk to a minister, a friend, one of my ladies, or some other subject of yours. Or anyone else you feel like talking to or who might ask for an audience. By doing so, you would avoid presenting yourself to the public too soon, but word would spread that you are in good health and certainly not dead," she finished with a cheeky smile.

It was so clever Cromwell wanted to strangle her. Why had he not come up with this idea? He looked at her perfect smile, the pertly raised chin, the seeming kindness in her eyes. Good Lord, but she was dangerous. Her wit, her charm, her looks. He would have to be careful around her at all times.

Henry was taken with the idea and relaxed visibly. "So be it. For two days, I will remain in my chambers and entertain a number of guests of your choice." He motioned at Cromwell. The Secretary nodded obediently.

"And maybe," he continued, "maybe I'll be able to remember some people and receive them as well. It remains to be seen." He turned to Suffolk. "How like you this, my friend? After two days, I think I'll be ready for a public appearance, and thus everyone will be satisfied. Don't you agree, Charles?"

His gaze was friendly but also a little demanding, Charles noticed. He was more than willing to agree with Henry, though. After all, he had never wanted anything but to be on good terms with him and serve him to the best of his abilities.

"It is a brilliant idea. I am sure it will be a great success. And, if your Majesty pleases, I myself would like to arrange the festivities here at court."

Henry's smile was even broader. "It pleases me greatly. I should like a great deal of merriment and dancing for everyone, and a possibility for me to address my… my people."

"As you wish, your Majesty."

By now, they had finished their breakfast, and Cromwell and Brandon where both eager to get going. There was a great deal to arrange for both of them. Already the Secretary was pondering the question who should be invited into the king's chambers and who not. Charles was busy imagining the upcoming festivities in his mind and what would please the king the most.

Before they left, Henry asked: "Should there not be an announcement at least, that I am well and will be receiving people in my rooms? I wish to grant an audience also to some people that you, Thomas, might not come to choose, be it for lack of rank or favour, but who might have urgent business to discuss with me."

It was a very just and honourable suggestion, and Brandon, Cromwell and Anne looked at each other for a moment, all of them thinking: _Our old and new king, what is he going to be like? What is to become of England? _

Cromwell bowed. "An announcement shall be made immediately, your Majesty. When you are ready to receive the first guest, let me know."

Henry inclined his head gracefully. "Very well. My lords, I bid you good day."

When the door had closed behind them, Henry went back to the table and took his wife's hand in his.

"Sweet Anne," he said tenderly. "What lies before me, I do not know. But, with you by my side, I shall surely make it through... My beautiful Queen."

Looking into her blue eyes that were so tempting, so trusting yet so cautious, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.


	9. Meet King Henry

**Chapter 7 : Meet King Henry**

* * *

Emerging from the King's chambers, Cromwell nodded briefly at Brandon before he set out to make his way back to his office, which turned out to be no easy task. He had a lot on his mind, and, in this state of contemplation, was completely unwilling to answer the endless questions of a throng of courtiers waiting not only before the privy chamber itself, but in seemingly every corner and niche of the godforsaken palace.

"My lord Cromwell! How is his Majesty?" was the most common exclamation.

Thomas said nothing as he passed them all by, feeling their disapproving eyes on him. In a way, he understood. Many thought him to be closest to the Crown, more influential even than the Queen herself, and expected him to provide them with some news, to make some sort of announcement. And that was exactly what he was planning to do, as he had promised to his Majesty. But he wanted to think it through in the stillness of his office, accompanied only by his most trusted servants, and probably Sir Richard Rich. He always strived to do things to his own and his Majesty's utmost satisfaction.

Walking silently, he thought that what he had said to he King was true. The court was buzzing. There was so much commotion, one might think it was Christmas tide or time for any other great festivity. With the difference that most people seemed tense, worried, or even infuriated at being left to their own devices without news or orders from the King, who was, after all, the centre of courtly life.

He saw Mark Smeaton and Thomas Wyatt with a couple of other young men, talking animatedly. There were many ladies in the corridors; some of them seemed genuinely worried, hands on their hearts, the rest, though, were huddled together in groups, totally engrossed in idle gossip. To his surprise Cromwell also spotted Nan Seville and the Lady Shelton, Anne Boleyn's most important ladies-in-waiting. They were just emerging from a nearby corridor that led to the Queen's chambers. They did not talk to anyone, and were soon lost from his view in the crowd. He also noticed that Thomas and George Boleyn were nowhere to be seen.

"Mister Secretary! Why can we not see the king?" he heard the voice of a man. It was Edward Seymour, who was standing not far away with his father and sister. Sir John, as always, had that pliant, good-natured look on his face. The young lady seemed anxious. Cromwell stopped unwillingly to address them. He could not say that he liked them – they were neither sophisticated nor genuine enough to stir an interest in him, as other families, such as the Boleyns, had in the past. But he still desired to keep them close because, before the king's accident, he had of course noticed the increasing interest Henry had been showing in Jane Seymour. What was going to happen no one could know, but Thomas thought it wise not to affront them now. After all, Edward was a very driven courtier, even if he did not display it openly, and John too was ambitious.

Moving closer to the three of them, he whispered: "Do not disconcert yourself. I can not say anything specific now, but there will be a public announcement before long. Also, there will be the possibility to be received by the King in his private chambers. His Majesty wants me to chose certain people for him - if you get my meaning."

Edward nodded coolly. Cromwell, sure that he had made his point - and equally sure that one of the family's servants would appear at his office very soon with a nice amount of money - inclined his head briefly, and left. Turning around just once he noticed that people were starting to swarm around the Seymours. He could only hope the family would be discreet enough to choose their words carefully.

Half an hour later, the Secretary's clerk was finished with the template of the announcement that would be made soon. Thomas himself had dictated it.

Sir Richard Rich, proof-reading it one last time, nodded in a satisfied manner.

"It is very good," he said. "It should be brought forth immediately."

Cromwell agreed, and ordered one of his servants to take the paper to the officials. It would take some time before it was read out, therefore he had good reason to start with the task of choosing people who would be granted an audience with his Majesty.

As a matter of trust, he had told Rich that the King had lost his memory and was unwilling to appear in public so soon. He had had the man swear not to talk about it to anyone, and warned of the consequences should Richard choose not to comply. There were companions, sure, but still. He, Cromwell, could not afford making mistakes in such a peculiar situation. It was a dangerous game.

Now they had to work swiftly and efficiently to make a list of those who would be allowed to meet his Majesty. Although the commotion interrupted them, Cromwell was pleased to see a servant of the Seymours who had with him a little bag jiggling with coins. Cromwell scribbled down the names of the Seymours, then moved on to think of more important people.

First he wrote down the name of Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Cranmer was a good and loyal man whom Henry would certainly like, and the bishop was also needed as clerical advisor, to pray with the king.

Who else?

There were, of course, the Boleyns. Also, the Queen had sent for her daughter, Princess Elizabeth, who would arrive later this day. The Secretary, despite the fact that his relationship to the mother had cooled somewhat in the last few weeks, still held the little girl in high esteem. In his opinion she was not, as some people thought, the bastard child of the King and a whore, but heir presumptive to the throne, the daughter of a crowned monarch, no matter who Anne was. And, after all, he himself had helped bring Anne Boleyn to the throne, and had loved her once as a courageous and God-fearing soul. Elizabeth was her daughter, a bright and cautious girl who was still a valuable token in matters of state. Her marriage to a foreign prince would one day greatly benefit England, or, if Anne or any other queen did not bear Henry a son, Elizabeth might still come to rule – in her own right.

But all this was speculation, and Cromwell focused once more on the task at hand.

"Who else would you suggest, Sir Richard?" he asked the man. The final decision would be his, but it was always advisable to consider the ideas of others who had a different view on the matter.

"If you ask me, we should include a few of those who are very close to the King, or the Queen for that matter, in everyday life. What about your protégée, Wyatt? Also, he's a poet. His Majesty, if indeed his personality is not completely changed, might like to listen to some poems or music."

Cromwell nodded approvingly and wrote the name down.

"Furthermore," Rich went on, "I suggest the Lady Shelton and a few other ladies of... well, let me say, worldly inclinations. Eleanor Luke, maybe. They are both easy to talk to and will not shy away from talking to a king going through a difficult phase. They know how to make light, pleasant conversation."

"I'm not sure about your choice of ladies, but I get your general idea." Thomas scribbled down a few names that came to mind.

They went on like that, writing down the names of a few carefully selected ministers, officials, and other courtiers.

Eventually Cromwell laid the quill down. There were now 12 people on the list. "We must consider that after the announcement many other people will ask for audiences. So this should be sufficient."

He handed the paper to one of his staff and told him and two others to approach those on the list, and tell them they would be granted an audience with the King. The specific times would be announced later.

Just as the two men leaned back to enjoy a moment of relaxation, trumpets sounded outside, and they hurried out of the room to hear the announcement which was being read out in the great hall.

"In the name of his gracious and illustrious Majesty, Henry the Eighth, King of England, Ireland and France, Supreme Head of the Church of England, to all nobles and lords, as well as to all other subjects shall come: It is the king's pleasure to assure you of his health and well-being. God, in His never-ending mercy, has prevented the unthinkable. His Majesty finds himself in good health and spirit, but has nevertheless decided to remain in seclusion for two days, after which he will present himself to you all at a great festivity, which is even now being planned and organized by the his Majesty's beloved servant and friend, his Grace the Duke of Suffolk. In the meantime, his Majesty will be receiving and entertaining a few chosen guests in his private rooms. Should any of you feel worthy or in dire need to be granted such an audience, come forward in the next hour and report to the clerks of my lord Secretary Cromwell. God save his Majesty!"

A great roar of astonishment went through the crowd, and after a moment of silence everyone started talking. _Like a beehive,_ Cromwell thought a little disparagingly.

Then, suddenly, someone shouted: "Glory to God, the king is well! Long live the king!"

And everyone fell in, shouting: "The king is well! Long live the king!"

* * *

At three o'clock in the afternoon Henry had already received seven people.

Thomas and George Boleyn had come in first. Anne, who was by his side most of the time or at least in one of the adjoining rooms, seemed to love them dearly, especially her brother. When she introduced him as Lord Rochford, there was a genuine, sisterly love in her eyes.

The two men knew of Henry's loss of memory and were both cautious and polite. In Thomas Boleyn, Henry immediately detected a sharp intelligence, fierce ambition, and a practical, ingenious mind that would surely be beneficial to any monarch. Boleyn spoke fluent, nearly accent-free French, knew everyone at court, and was deeply learned. He was, in all things, the epitome of a valuable and trained courtier - a man who would always keep faith with his king, since fierce loyalty to the Crown, no matter if genuinely felt or not, would inevitably be rewarded with money and influence. Henry was in no illusions about this man, realising that a king needed supporters like Boleyn in order to manifest and keep his own power. He knew that, although perhaps the man was indeed fond of his king to some extent, he was equally true to his own aspiring and selfish will, ever eager to rise to more and more power. It was a give and take mentality, beneficial to both king and courtier.

George Boleyn was another matter. He was clever too, learned and deeply religious, a person of great wit and a spirit worthy of an aristocrat. Even so, he seemed to be a man of lusty appetites, who had much joy in wordly vanities such as dancing, poetry, and the pleasures of the flesh. Henry sensed, too, George's reckless nature and his haughty pride that would surely bring about his downfall someday if he did not curb it. But he shared many of Anne's characteristics: a great zest for life, a buoyant disposition, and elegant manners.

Henry told them both of his love for them, reassuring them of his favor. They bowed in unison, so very poised in their dark clothes, and took their leave, Anne accompanying them.

The next person Henry received was the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had hastened to the palace to meet the king after the tragic accident. After a courteous, albeit hesitant, greeting on both sides, they talked briefly of the situation of the Church of England; Henry eager to learn more about his position as Supreme Head of the Church of England, and the Archbishop answering all of his questions patiently, all the while carefully avoiding to mention Katherine of Aragon and her daughter, as Anne had asked him to.

"I must thank your Majesty for receiving me," Cranmer said eventually. "Your Majesty must know that, next to the Queen's Majesty and my lord Cromwell, I am most bound to you of all creatures living, and will continue to endeavour to please you."

Henry thanked him and trusting him by instinct, released himself of the burden he was carrying by confessing the loss of his memory.

"I am shocked... grieved... to hear that, your Majesty," Cranmer began. "But, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Maybe this is a sign."

"What do you mean?"

"It may be that God is testing you," Cranmer suggested. "Your Majesty, do no think I say this to criticise you. Far be it from me to do anything of the kind. To me you have ever been a good and gracious lord. But God never does anything without good reason. Perhaps He is urging you to find your strength, your destiny ... your true aim in life."

Henry's lips twitched slighty. "Do you mean to say that I have not been as good a king as God wants me to be?"

"Oh, no," Cranmer hastened to say, terrified as usual of the his Majesty's infamous hot temper. Indeed, it seemed as if the accident had not changed the King completely. "I am merely suggesting that God has shown you His favor by saving and preserving your Grace from death, wishing to reassure you of His blessing and love, and desiring your love in return." He hoped this would be sufficient.

Henry frowned. "It is possible. After all, accidents and such like never happen without a reason. And, if God had wanted me to die, I would not be here now, would I? So maybe He has another plan for me."

"Indeed," Cranmer agreed, "in this time of convalescence and self-discovery that has commenced for your Grace, you may come to find answers to your questions. It could also be a sign of God - the fact that you lost all memory of what was before the accident. The Lord is good. He guides us, leads us to redemption and gives us a second chance."

And, putting his hands together, he prayed. Henry joined in.

_"Almighty and everlasting God. Guide in this difficult time Thy humble servant, Henry, of England, Ireland and France, king, defender of the faith..."_

* * *

After this spiritually and emotionally satisfying meeting, during which Anne had been absent, she joined Henry again and together they received the Solicitor General, Sir Richard Rich. Next came two of the Queen's ladies, who were introduced to Henry as Lady Margaret Shelton and Anne "Nan" Seville. They made light and pleasant conversation, which Henry found relaxing, and seemed to be very loyal to Anne.

Then Sir Thomas Wyatt was announced, and Henry could not help but feel disappointed when Anne declared she had to go. She promised to be back in an hour, and unwillingly he let her go, but not before kissing her hand. "Thank you," he said, rejoicing in her beautiful little smile.

"Master Wyatt," she quickly whispered to him before she left, "is a very talented poet, protégée of my lord Cromwell, and your loyal servant." She deliberately avoided talking of her past with Wyatt. Some things were better left unsaid. For now, forever.

* * *

Wyatt proved himself to be a pleasant companion. Soon Henry was bellowing with laughter at some of his more "easy" poems. As the man flipped through the pages he had brought with him, in order to find a sonnet that had been written by another poet, but which he thought very entertaining, Henry's eye fell on a caption on one of the papers.

"What's that one?" he asked, curiously. The letters had been written with great care, and the title was intriguing. _"Whoso list to hunt?"_ he quoted.

Wyatt's face fell for a reason unknown to Henry. "Oh, that one. It's an old one. I... "

"Read it to me!" Henry pressed on.

"I couldn't. I mean, it is very personal." He squirmed under the king's gaze.

Henry scoffed. He wanted to hear it. "All of your poems seem personal. Now read it to me. I demand it." He said the latter in jest, but it came out so naturally that, to his surprise, Wyatt yielded immediately.

"If it be your Majesty's pleasure... I shall read it to your Majesty."

And so he did.

Henry was in trance. It was an intriguing poem, and about a woman. It was full of disappointment, of desire, and love unrequited. Of jealousy.

_Whoso list to hunt ? I know where is an hind !,_

_But as for me, alas ! I may no more,_

_The vain travail hath wearied me so sore ;_

_I am of them that furthest come behind._

_Yet may I by no means my wearied mind_

_Draw from the deer ; but as she fleeth afore_

_Fainting I follow ; I leave off therefore,_

_Since in a net I seek to hold the wind._

"Go on! Go on!" Henry urged. Wyatts pleasant voice drawled on.

_Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt_

_As well as I, may spend his time in vain !_

_And graven with diamonds in letters plain,_

_There is written her fair neck round about ;_

_' Noli me tangere ; for Caesar's I am,_

_And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.'_

Henry applauded, grinning widely. He took great pleasure in poetry such as this. He loved riddles and hidden meanings of all kind. "And who is this lady you once loved?" he asked humorously.

Wyatt bowed his head. "She's… I knew her once. Long ago."

"Ah," Henry laughed, "she belongs to someone else now, I guess."

Wyatt, unaware of the fact that the King had lost his memory, looked up at his opponent, sure he would see triumph and malice there. But there was nothing of the like, only empathy and understanding. He sighed, confused. This was the very man who stood between himself and Anne, although he knew beyond a doubt that Anne would never be his again. But still, the feeling of jealousy persisted. He had always respected Henry as a king, but as a man he was his rival.

He could not shake from his mind the thought of what might have been, of what might have become of Anne and him, Thomas, had not her father's ambition pushed her into the arms of the King, had she herself not fallen for Henry. Life was not fair. After all this time, all these years, her ill treatment of him, he still loved her. He would always love her, but it was not to be_. "Apples," _Anne's voice echoed in his head_, "apples"._

Finally, he took a deep breath and answered: "Yes, she belongs to someone else now. And she loves him."

* * *

While Henry was amusing himself in Wyatt's company, Anne, accompanied by Madge and Nan, was making her way to her own chambers where her father and George awaited her. She was in a good mood, although she'd had a hard time trying to push Thomas's face out of her mind. They had met him accidently in one of the corridors after she'd left the king's chambers.

Would the poet never leave her in peace? She always felt watched and cautious when his name was mentioned, and worse even when she saw him in person. On such occasions she always strived to ridicule and humble him, as if that would extinguish all his and her memories of their past together, as if by pushing him away, she could rid herself of the memory of the love they had shared once, in another life.

_How much things have changed_, she mused.

As she entered her chambers she pushed these thoughts out of her mind. She felt strangely reassured when she spotted her brother and father standing in the room, looking at her as she came through the door.

"Anne," her father said, a little too benevolently. His smile was forced. Was he hiding something from her? She frowned, but she let him kiss her hand and compliment on her appearance. "You look well," he said.

Anne greeted George as well, and asked both mdn to join her at one of the tables.

"I have good news," Thomas Boleyn began. "Elizabeth will arrive at the palace shortly. Norris is escorting her and her servants, including the Lady Bryan."

A happy smile spread over Anne's face.

"Elizabeth! My own heart! Thank you, Father. No news could have been better." But as she thought of her darling little girl, another thought came to her. "If only… if only I knew how the King is going to react to seeing her…"

Thomas, unwilling to tolerate Anne's desperate moods and endless doubts in a time such as this, interrupted her: "He will accept her freely and lovingly, and you will make sure of that. After all, she is his true daughter and a bright, good-hearted little girl. How could he not love such a child?"

"But…"

"Anne! Have you forgotten what I said to you the other night? No regrets. No doubts. We cannot afford that. You must be strong. There is no going back."

She knew very well that he was right, but how was she to blame? It was tremendously stressful to appear happy and merry all the time, when in truth her mind was buzzing and in turmoil. She could not be sure of Henry's affections - she'd have to win them all over again. And although she had noticed in the past two days that Henry seemed to like and trust her, she still had to be careful. Her plan to seduce him and win his love was taking shape and going well so far, but still… still. There was always a small voice in her head, urging her to be even more careful, to hold back and wait. But she knew she could not. Now, when Henry was still weak and confused by the loss of his memory, she had to act. She knew this as well as her father and brother did, but then she had never been as cool and reserved as they could be if they wanted to. She was different.

"Yes, Father," she forced herself to smile reassuringly, for her own sake and theirs. "You're right. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive." He answered, and, to her surprise, patted her hand in a gesture of understanding. She revelled in it. The good mood remained as they talked about the King and the audiences that had taken place so far.

"Wyatt is with him now. I do not even know if he feels like seeing someone else afterwards. And in any case, Elizabeth will be here shortly… - What is it?" she asked harshly, seeing the awkwardly bowed head of her brother and the look in her father's eyes.

"Anne…"

"What?" She shrieked. An unwelcome realisation dawned on her. "Who's next? Who was granted the next audience?"

George's eyebrows went together in an angry frown. "My lord Cromwell thought it appropriate to grant the Seymours an audience with his Majesty. There's no doubt that they have reimbursed him for his … endeavour."

Anne was furious, even as her father tried to calm her down.

"How dare he? How dare he allow that whore and her family to see the King? The woman who seeks to replace me, me – the Queen of England!"

"Anne," her father implored, "calm down!"

"No. No. I won't have it! I won't let Cromwell do this. I am the Queen, I can undo his choices. It's not to be. If Henry sees her… "

George looked at her sympathetically, and she hated it. He knew her real fear was that if Henry saw the Seymour brat, he would fall in love with her once more and everything would be lost. No, no, no, it was not to be. She had to do something. She could never allow the Seymours to talk to Henry and poison his mind. Of course, they did not know of the king's lost memory, but they were dangerous nevertheless. And then there was Jane, sweet, pliant Jane, who'd surely do anything in her power to weave her "magic" again. Anne wanted to kill her with her bare hands.

There was a look of thunder on her face, and she only focused again when her father grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

"Anne! Stop this!"

She glared at him, but he did not yield, as he had the other night when she had seen respect for her in his eyes. He shook her so much it hurt. She winced.

"Stop this! You must not torture yourself with these thoughts. Yes, they are dangerous, but they are also clueless, and that is our advantage. Don't you see? They have no idea what happened to the King. They think it's all as it was before, that he's tiring of you, that he's falling for Jane. And you can use that against them."

She nodded, but without comprehension. "How?" she murmured, trying to grasp his thoughts.

"Don't you see… they deem themselves victorious, but it is always dangerous to presume too far. The King is under your influence now, and he needs you. I've been watching him. He adores you, Anne. He agrees to everything you say. What has happened to you? A year ago, you would have seen this. Your influence now, I think, is as great as never before. You can form him, you can do anything you want with him if you play your cards carefully. You do not have to fear Jane Seymour."

As often, she was in awe of the sharpness of his mind. He considered things she, in moments such as this, would never come to think of. She was too angry right now to think straight. She knew she was not concentrating enough, but, whenever she thought of Jane Seymour, she was consumed by hatred and fear.

But he was right, of course. It was all in her hands now. She only had to use what influence she had to bind Henry to her. She just had to find a way to make it happen. If only she could muster up her old strength, the undying ambition that had never forsaken her, all these years. If only…

"Anne," George grabbed her hand, stroking it gently, and his touch comforted her. "If you're anxious, make sure you're there when the King receives them. You see? I'm sure that when you're in the room with him, he will not look at Jane twice. Just be who he wants you to be, his loyal friend and advisor in this dark time, and nothing out of the regular is going to happen. Trust me."

She nodded. "Yes, Brother. If you say so." Her eyes fell and she looked down at her hands, but then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. It seemed so ridiculous to her to fear that wench Jane Seymour – a mere girl, nothing compared to herself.

And yet, the feeling of anxiety remained.

* * *

"Your Majesty, Sir John Seymour, Sir Edward Seymour, and the Lady Jane Seymour."

Henry, still very much relaxed and merry after his conversation with the poet Wyatt, looked up from a book Anne had given to him to greet his next visitors.

It had been a long day of audiences, but he found it strangely amusing. He had a keen interest in people's opinions, and rejoiced in all the good-natured banter with his guests, and some controversial, even spiritual, talk with the likes of Sir Richard Rich and the Archbishop. So far everything had gone well. Anne's help made it so much easier. He did not know where she was now, but one of his servants had brought a message from her saying that she would join him to receive the Seymours.

Surely they must be somewhat important if Anne chose to be with him when he talked to them, so he smiled pleasantly at them. They bowed low before him, and Henry moved to put a hand on Sir John's shoulder. He took a strange pleasure in pretending that everything was as before, that he had not lost his memory.

"Sir John," he said, "welcome".

The tall man smiled. "Your Majesty. Allow me to tell you how relieved I am to see you so merry and healthy."

"Yes. The Lord is good," Henry said honestly. Indeed, he was deeply grateful to God for sparing his life.

He then looked at Sir John's children, of whom he had no recollection at all. "I see you've brought your children, Sir John. Edward," he addressed the young man in front of him.

"Your Majesty. May I also express how grateful and relieved I am to see you much improved. The Lord is good indeed."

Henry nodded, smiling benevolently. Secretly he thought: _What a cold fish._

He was still musing about Edward's unauthentic display when Jane, the daughter, who had been standing next to her brother with her head bowed, raised her eyes and looked at him.

For a brief moment he stopped dead in his tracks, as if he had seen her before. But there was no specific memory that came to mind, and so he just watched her with keen, alert eyes.

She did not strike him as a great beauty. Her face was not sharp enough to be called original - in fact it was rather plain. Plain not in the sense of unattractiveness, but of missing peculiarity. There was no edge to her; she looked as she probably was: simple, docile, kind. Still, in spite of that simplicity, she was still pretty, he figured. Her fair skin and the beautiful mass of blonde hair gave her a quintessentially English, almost angelic, look. Hers was a gentle and timid charm, but she did not kindle in him any other feeling but a friendly tenderness.

"Lady Jane," he said and watched her sink into a deep curtsy. It was a bit over the top, he thought, but he still gave her a smile. "How do you do?" Of course he did not know how strange he sounded to her, to the three of them. How indifferent. They had excepted to see the flame come to life in his eyes again that had always been there when he looked at Jane. But there was nothing. John Seymour frowned and watched his daughter tensely.

"Your Majesty," she said in her low, pleasant voice, and it was then that Henry noticed the eager, almost expectant, look in her blue eyes. What did the she want?

"Well?" he said, piercing her with his gaze. She looked at him as if she wanted him to throw her over his shoulder and jog away with her. And he absolutely did not feel the need to do so.

"I… I …" she stammered. "I beg you pardon, your Majesty?" her eyes fell.

_Why is he looking at me like that?_ She thought frantically. _Where's the gleam in his eyes? _There was only kindness and a bit of mock impatience in his scrutiny. No passion or desire at all. She had been so happy to see him, and now she was confused. She prayed fervently that he was only being so offhand with her because he was still recovering from the dreadful accident that had shocked her so much.

"I said, how do you do, Lady Jane?" Henry repeated, a little annoyed. He realised he was missing the sharp tongue, the apt retort he had noticed about Anne, his wife. He saw Jane's lips quiver in uncertainty and thought he could never live with a woman who did not possess the ability to converse and express herself easily.

Mustering all his willpower, he forced a smile upon his face and listened as she stammered:

"I am well, your Majesty, thank you."

"Marvellous," he said nonchalantly, hiding his disapproval. John Seymour noticed, though, and was immediately worried. He looked at Edward, who made an attempt to push the conversation forward.

"My sister is finding court very grand, your Majesty. Especially the tournament yesterday was a bit too much of excitement for her, I guess. She enjoyed herself so much… that is, until your Majesty's… accident. It distressed her so." He attempted a forlorn, sympathetic look and failed miserably.

One of Henry's brows went up in surprise. "Is that so, my Lady?" He was not quite sure what to make of Jane. Her looks and manners gave away nothing; it was hard to detect her true emotions behind that sweet face, to see what she truly felt. And, to be honest, he did not really care. He did not know why this family had been granted an audience with him in the first place. What a bore!

"It is true," Jane squeezed out, thinking that maybe he needed to be reassured of her love. Yes, that must be it! After his near death experience, he wanted to know if she still cared for him. She had to woe him with kindness, charm him with the sweet femininity she possessed and the Queen did not.

"I was very distressed. I prayed for your Majesty… " her voice prattled on. Henry found himself nodding occasionally, but he did not really listen.

"… so worried… beseeched God to save… could not go home when… glad to see you well again…"

It went ever on; she told him of her fear and devotion, and Henry could not help thinking how sugary it all sounded. Too good to be true. Kind words, yes, but meaningless to him.

_Anne would never say things like this_, he thought, his mind now more pleasantly engaged. When she complimented someone, he had noticed, she did so in a most honest and subtle manner, a smile on her lips. She would not say much, but all the right things.

"Hmhm," he murmured in response to Jane's words.

Before the seeming reproach she faltered. "Forgive me, your Majesty. I spoke of things I should not… "

"I-" Henry searched for an appropriate answer to such nonsense when the door to the room flew open, and Anne strode in.

She heard Jane's last words and her heart constricted, her lips forming a thin line. What was Henry doing with that bitch? She wanted to rage, to fume, when she noticed the expression on Henry's face. He was looking at her with such devotion and gratefulness that she frowned in confusion. What was going on here?

"Sweetheart," he exclaimed, and, leaving Jane to her own devices, quickly walked over to his wife and raised her hand to his lips.

He bestowed on her his most desirous smile, the one that made his eyes glitter with admiration and tenderness, and Anne found herself spellbound. How handsome he was. How kind he could be when he chose to. It was almost as it had been in the old days, when they had been true to each other.

She let him lead her over to her guests, never taking her eyes off of him, and neither did he avert his gaze from her. She watched as he skilfully presented her to them, as if he had never been robbed of the knowledge that he was king. _Perhaps some things never change,_ she mused.

"Here is my wife, Queen Anne," Henry said, and watched as they bowed to Anne.

"Your Majesty," Sir John intoned. "How do you do?"

Anne, shaking herself out of her reverie, replied: "Very well, Sir John, I thank you." For a fleeting second that went unnoticed by Henry but was noticed by everyone else, she fixed Jane with a bitter gaze of bitter indignation. She must never let that girl replace her. Never.

But, as she tore her eyes away from Jane, expecting to see Henry look at the wench with that puppy-eyed expression she so loathed, she was surprised when she found him looking at her herself instead. Their eyes met, and she saw in his nothing but affection for her, and it touched her as deeply as few things ever had before. Could it truly be? Was he falling for her again?

He laid a hand on the small of her back and smiled that beautiful smile again, and Anne thought it was too much to bear. With an effort she calmed herself down and tore her eyes away from him, instead looking at Edward Seymour's face, whose blank expression was a true relief.

_Concentrate, _she inwardly berated herself, catching her breath.

His affection was growing? Very well. She had to use that affection carefully.

She knew too well how it felt to be discarded by him, to be treated coolly and be pushed away. Oh, she had been at fault too, forever upbraiding and offending him, all the while raging with jealousy. In the bitter months before the accident, she'd allowed him access to her innermost thoughts and fears, hoping that, by allowing him to see her pain and frustration, he would understand how much he meant to her and revoke his bad opinion of her. She would not do so again. She had to be calm and collected, for her own sake. For the sake of ambition. When a woman put her mind on playing and seducing a man, she had to set to work swiftly and skillfully. There was a lot of strategy involved – years ago, she had been more than good at it. She needed to revive the old drive that had won her the love of a king and brought her to the throne.

_Never show weakness or fear. Be the old Anne once more. Bold, shrewd, confident._

She looked at Henry and smiled, her eyes burning. "Your Majesty," she said cheekily, "will you let your poor guests stand around aimlessly, without drink in hand? And how about a game of cards?"

Henry laughed. "Ha! Of course!"

He turned around and clicked his fingers at one of the few servants that had been chosen to wait on him.

"Bring wine for our guests!"

For a moment he wondered if his tone was too harsh, but then confidence surged through him. He was actually starting to enjoy this whole king-thing. It was very convenient.

A little later they were sitting at the table, playing cards.

Edward was not a good player and had a bad hand. Sir John was doing rather well, and Jane, to everyone's inward surprise, was an apt player and knew exactly what she was doing. The conversation between the two parties was rather forced, though, and Henry wondered with increasing discomfort why the Seymours kept looking at him as if this meeting was not to their liking. They were hiding it well, but he could feel their disappointment. What the hell were they expecting of him? They were treating him as if he were Jane's own fiancé. He laughed out loud at the thought, causing everyone to look at him suspiciously.

Anne cleared her throat.

Henry watched, fascinated, as her small, elegant fingers shuffled the cards. She then dealt, and the next round began. Shortly thereafter, Edward was out, and Sir John followed a couple of minutes later. Henry was a bit annoyed when he lost as well, but he quickly recovered. At least now he could watch Anne to his heart's content. Her back never touched the chair; she was sitting erectly.

It was just her and Jane now. Completely different from each other, it was fascinating to watch the two women as they played. Henry's interest in the scene was fuelled by curiosity, that of the Seymour men by ambition and selfish consideration. They had to know what was happening. Why was the King showing so little interest in Jane? They could not let the usurper queen dig her claws into him again…

While the men were musing, Jane watched the Queen in silence. She was not comfortable with their proximity. She hated it when the Queen looked at her like this, her slanting blue eyes threatening her. Jane felt as if she had nothing to put up against that unrelenting stare.

She knew that Anne was aware of what she was trying to do. The Queen had been suspicious from the moment Jane had first entered her chambers. That day, Jane had solemnly sworn to serve her Majesty, and to be modest and good in her conduct at all times.

Being a religious person herself, she knew it was not righteous of her to try to seduce another woman's husband - in fact, it was against the law of God. It was equally reprehensible to act in such a way against a woman whom she had promised to obey. She was well aware of the dubiousness of her actions, and she was not proud of what she was doing.

But she was a woman, and every woman was bound to duty and obligation. As an obedient daughter and sister, she could not defy the wishes of her father and brother. She owed this to her family, they had told her so time and time again, and Jane was too much of a child of her time to question the authority of her male relatives.

Also, she really did loathe Anne Boleyn, and thought her to be a whore who had robbed the true Queen, Katherine of Aragon, of her rightful title and position.

And then there was that third thing, namely that the King was a beautiful and powerful man who knew exactly how to charm and woe a woman. That is, he had done so before the accident.

Jane dared to look at him and found him staring at his wife. It was frustrating. At least her hand was very good. She hoped she would manage to come off as the victor over the whore - in every way.

Meanwhile, Anne was trying to focus on the game alone, but it was difficult. She felt Henry's eyes on her, watching alertly as she sorted out her cards. The Seymour men kept eyeing her suspiciously. And, above all, the little wench opposite her was playing very well, which annoyed her. At least she could comfort herself with the knowledge that the girl was terrified. Anne made a great effort of bestowing an indifferent gaze on the lady while Henry was watching, but sometimes she could not help herself and her eyes would turn into mere slits.

Later in the game it was becoming obvious to everyone that Jane needed a king in order to win the game. When she did indeed receive one, Anne wanted to strangle her. She hated losing, especially to such a ninny. But she held back.

"Why, Mistress Seymour, " she stated drily, deliciously stretching the world "mistress", "you have a good hap to stop at a king. But you are not like others, are you?"

Her eyes were glittering mischievously, her words dripping with ambiguity. "You will have all or none."

Jane, flustered but defiant, put her cards down.

"That king was my fortune," she said in the same manner, realising what Anne was hinting at. She was not as stupid as everyone thought, and she knew that the Queen knew it too.

There was a moment of awkward silence, before Henry exclaimed loudly: "Great game, great game, ladies. You both played very well."

He clapped his hands vigorously, unaware of any double entendres in the two women's conversation.

* * *

It was over.

By six o'clock, Henry had reached his zenith. He had received five more people after the Seymours' departure, and he felt absolutely no desire to talk to any more courtiers. He told Cromwell, who visited him briefly, to let no one else into his rooms.

"Very well, your Majesty," the Secretary said and left the King to himself.

It had been a long and interesting day, full of new impressions, but now Henry was tired and exhausted. The good, hearty dinner his groom served him benefited him greatly, and he felt a lot better afterwards. He ate alone, for Anne had excused himself once again. He had no idea where she was.

Not half an hour later, after he had dismissed his servants, he was lying on his bed all by himself, browsing once more through the book Anne had given him. It was something she was reading herself at the moment, she had told him, but for him to read it she would abandon it for a while. It was a religious text about the spiritual nourishment and elation a Christian soul may find in prayer and whole-hearted service to God, and Henry was mesmerized and comforted by the neat writing.

Suddenly he heard a soft knock on the door, and sensed rather than knew that it was Anne. He put the book away, happy at the prospect of seeing her again. But, when she came through the door and the servant shut it behind her from outside, something was different.

To his great surprise she was carrying a child in her arms. A beautiful little girl with red hair and a sweet, oval-shaped face.

He lifted himself up, staring at the two of them. Anne moved in closer. She sat the girl down on her feet and watched lovingly as the child strode towards Henry.

"Anne… what…" Henry began, but stopped immediately as the little girl raised her arms up to him and said: "My Papa!"

The shock was profound. Of course, he ought to have thought of the possibility of him and Anne having a child, but seeing the evidence so clearly before his eyes was astounding. It took his breath away. He sat motionlessly and looked at the little person fidgeting before him.

She was wearing a yellow dress and tiny green slippers. Pretty in a pert, yet dignified kind of way, she had a lot of poise even as she jumped around in front of him, waiting for him to hug her. And this little being with the bright eyes and pouting red lips was supposed to be his daughter? His own daughter? He could not fathom the thought, but he did not protest when the little one finally threw herself into his arms of her own accord, hugging him tightly.

In fact, as he felt the warmth of the little body, the small nose snuggling against his neck, he felt a surge of comfort momentarily overwhelm him. How light she was in his arms! He moved to embrace her, and when he noticed how good it felt he tightened his arms around her and breathed in her baby scent.

"My Papa," the girl whispered again, "you're not dead."

Someone had obviously told her of his accident. "No," he managed to say, "no, darling. I'm not dead."

As the child clung to him, he met Anne's eyes and saw in them so much love for their mutual child it warmed his heart. He smiled a smile of unfeigned happiness.

When he woke from unconsciousness after the accident, he had thought that everything was lost, that he could not live on. He had dreaded the days to come. But then there was Anne, and he had seen hope within his reach again. And now he had this beautiful child in his arms, so obviously a creation of his and Anne's, for her looks alone resembled them both in so many ways. The thought that she was only a girl did not even enter his mind.

He hugged her tightly to his body now, unwilling to let go. She felt so good. Stupidly, he did not know his own daughter's name, and he smiled ironically to himself. He felt the bed shift as Anne sat down next to him. She began stroking the girl's back. "My Elizabeth," she whispered. She met Henry's eyes and smiled. "Did I not tell you that a special guest would come to see you?"

"I am that special guest, Papa!" Elizabeth said proudly, and Henry laughed. What a bright little girl. He was sure she was a clever one.

"A very special guest indeed," he said, holding her with one arm and stretching out the other to take Anne's hand in his. He was so eternally grateful to her for giving him all this support and happiness. She was the sole reason he was still here and had not died of despair after the accident. _Thank you_, he mouthed, rejoicing in her beauty and the great love she so obviously bore their daughter.

He laughed at the girl's chatter, and, pressing a kiss to her temple, whispered almost inaudibly:

"My Elizabeth."


	10. The pearl of his world

**Chapter 8 : The pearl of his world**

* * *

The Lady Mary Tudor knew nothing of the pleasure her father took in spending time with his wife and youngest daughter, rejoicing in the mercy of God who had blessed him with a seemingly perfect family. Nor did she suspect that the King did not have the slightest idea that somewhere in the county of Hertfordshire there was another daughter of his, pining away, deprived of the parental care she so desperately craved.

She had been shocked and terrified to hear of his Majesty's accident: her magnificent, vigorous father, who had always seemed to be the healthiest man on earth, invincible in his power - crushed by his horse and injured.

At first she tried to ignore the chatter of the servants at Hatfield House, where she, Mary, had been placed to serve as lady-in-waiting to her half-sister Elizabeth. She refused to believe that anything so tremendous may have happened to the King, unwilling to even consider the loss of another parent after her own sainted mother had passed away but recently.

The same afternoon, a rider in the king's livery appeared outside and, storming into the house, called for the Lady Bryan. Mary listened with wide eyes as he informed the woman of the King's accident and the Queen's desire to have Princess Elizabeth with her, wherefore Sir Henry Norris would arrive soon to take the child with him to Greenwich palace. The messenger instructed the lady to pack Elizabeth's things and prepare her for the pending journey.

Before such blatant facts Mary could no longer fool herself, and she had cried tears of anxiety. What if … what if the King died? She could not lose him too. No matter how badly he had been treating her ever since the Boleyn whore caught him in his web, she still loved him and desired his love and appreciation above everything else – it was all she had left, now that it had pleased God to call her sweet mother from this world.

Mary had begged the messenger for more information before he left, but he did not know much himself. He had been sent off almost immediately after the King's accident, and did not know whether his Majesty had since awoken from unconsciousness. She watched the man mount his horse and disappear, then turned around in the hope of finding comfort in Lady Bryan's eyes, but the governess was busy ordering people around, knowing they had to organize Elizabeth's trip in less than a day. No one took any notice of Mary in their haste, and so she retreated to her own small room to sort out her thoughts. She was terrified her father might die, afraid that perhaps she would never see him again and soon be an orphan. And then, heaven forbid, she would surely be put out of the way by the usurper queen and her clan in no time.

The familiar feeling of solitude engulfed her, and she felt utterly alone and helpless in a world where there was no stability, no security for her who had lost her mother and longed for the embrace of a distant, uncaring father. She had no idea whom she could turn to other than Chapuys, but surely he had more important things to deal with right now. _No, _she said to herself, _don't be unfair. He cares for you. He's going to help you, if … if the king should die. _But still, she had not heard from him in quite a while. Who knew what was going on at court right now; surely the ambassador had not a minute to himself these days.

In a rush of despair, Mary fell down before the small altar that was her sanctuary and prayed fervently for the preservation of her father. She could not lose him. Not now. Not ever. He was her only protection against Anne Boleyn's hatred. If Henry died, Elizabeth would be crowned Queen of England, and then nothing and no one would be able to stop the Boleyn family from destroying their enemies. And she, Mary, was the one they despised most in this world, she was sure of that. She shivered at the thought of Anne Boleyn as Queen dowager and Thomas Boleyn as Lord Protector.

_"Almighty God, give me the strength to get through this dark time. I implore you with all that is in me, save my beloved father! Oh Lord God, I beseech You…"_

Now, the day after Elizabeth's departure, the house was still as Mary ate her lunch, alone in her room once more. She hated to eat with the other women and tried to avoid being in their presence whenever she could, partly because they were ordinary ladies of no consequence, but mostly because they had never treated her well. Once, she had been a Princess of England, among all women in the country second in rank only to her mother - here she was but a servant of Elizabeth's, and no one seemed to care that she, Mary Tudor, was the daughter of a king, too.

Lady Bryan was the only one she trusted here, but the governess had of course left to watch over Elizabeth. Consequently there was no one she wanted to confide in right now or spend time with, and she was grateful for the solitude of her chamber, where no curious eyes would judge her.

It was eerily still, and nothing disturbed her contemplation. And while the silence brought her peace, her mind was still in turmoil.

Elizabeth and her escort had left yesterday morning for Greenwich: the Princess, Sir Henry Norris, five men of the royal guard and ten of Elizabeth's most important servants, including her tutor and seamstress. The little girl had been excited to learn that she was to see her royal parents again, but, being so prematurely cautious, she also noticed the anxiety and nervous apprehension that clung not only to Sir Henry Norris, but also the Lady Bryan. When she demanded of them to know what was wrong, they told her about her father's accident, and the child started to wail bitterly.

Mary could relate to the little girl's pain, for it was her own, with the only difference that Elizabeth was safe in her position and status, and she was not. Apart from that, Elizabeth's fear for their mutual father had reminded Mary of how serious the situation must be if the Princess of England, heir presumptive to the throne, was called to court.

If only God would save the King!

Against her will Mary's thoughts drifted to her younger sister again. She knew Elizabeth to be a cautious and clever child and, from time to time, thought fondly of the little girl. One day she would surely become a sensible and well-educated young lady, there was no doubting that.

But was she not also the offspring of the_ Harlot_? Ever since her father sent her to Hatfield House, Mary had been torn between the sisterly love and affection she felt for Elizabeth and cold, bitter suspicion of the girl who was the daughter of the Concubine. And Anne Boleyn, that was Mary's true conviction, had robbed her of all that was dear to her - her mother, her father, and her position as heir to the throne of England.

Yes, the Boleyn whore was responsible for all the misery in her, Mary's, life, and she hated her with a vengeance. Three years ago, when her mother was sent away and her own life changed forever, she had convinced herself that if it was all Anne's fault, it could not be the King's, and that thought was so much easier to live with than the idea that her very own father could be so heartless and selfish as to abandon his own daughter, the pearl of his world.

It must be Anne Boleyn's fault, for she was a worthless character. What had that woman ever done that brought anyone any peace or harmony? All she ever did was wreck havoc and destroy people's lives. She was a manipulator and a heretic.

Mary swore to herself that if the King should die and Anne Boleyn move to destroy his eldest daughter, she would not give way. She would either come off as victor over the harlot or die every inch a royal, secure in the knowledge of her birth and her status as the true daughter of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon, the Spanish princess who had lived and ruled with such dignity.

If, by the mercy of God, the King would live, she made this vow: that she would fight the Boleyn faction tooth and nail, and do everything in her power to destroy them. There must be a way for her to escape the miserable situation she was in, to leave behind the loneliness, the despair. Above all she desired to be Queen one day, to shape her own destiny, and to that end she would work with ambition and diligence. Her mother had told her once that one day she would be Queen of England, and by God, she wanted to achieve that aim – and if it was the last thing she did in this world.

Once more, she prayed fervently for the life of the king, prayed also that one day Henry would call her to him, kiss her brow and love her as a father ought to love his child. And then, when he held her so tightly and asked her for forgiveness, she would be the pearl of his world again, and she would pardon him all.

* * *

Anne smiled as she watched Elizabeth play with her chaperone, marvelling at the beauty and brightness of her daughter. They had gone for a walk around the palace's gardens to catch some fresh air. It was an hour before noon, and strangely warm for a day in January.

They had just stopped to admire the "fishies" in one of the fountains. Anne sat down gingerly on its rim, stroking her daughter's back and laughing with her ladies and Lady Bryan at Elizabeth's clever remarks.

She knew that the child was happy to be with her parents again. The day before, it had warmed her heart to notice how much Elizabeth rejoiced in Henry's presence, hugging him tightly and whispering how much she loved her "Papa". But she had been even more relieved to see that Henry seemed to accept the girl easily and readily as his own daughter, holding her in his arms and saying her name.

Anne looked up at the palace's strong walls, wondering what Henry was thinking right now. Was he thinking of her? Was he desirous to be in her presence, just as she longed to be in his all the time?

She shook her head, trying to push him out of her mind, but it was no use. These days she was thinking about him constantly, and it bothered her. It was frightening to know that while she had to do everything in her power to seduce and influence Henry, she was so desperately, madly in love with him.

_"Your image is before my eyes every waking second…"_

"My Lady Mother! Look! You're not looking!"

Elizabeth's chirping voice shook her out of her reverie. Anne looked down at the excited little girl jumping up and down in front of her and pointing at the small fish in the water.

She smiled again, thinking how much liker Henry her daughter was – imperious even at her young age, demanding and a little haughty, yet so utterly likeable, so arresting it made you want to shower all your love on her, hold her tight and never let her go.

Bending over, Anne made a surprised face as she listened to Elizabeth's ramblings and followed the small pointed finger with her eyes.

"Marvellous!" she declared. "I'm sure I've never seen such beautiful fishies in my whole life!"

Elizabeth seemed to like that and nodded in agreement. She prattled on, and Anne took the chance to return to her thoughts. Over her daughter's bright head she glanced at the palace again.

Henry was with Cromwell now, and she was desperate to know what they were talking about. Of course, there would be talk about the state, about England. There were so many things Henry had to catch up on, for he did not recall that much. Anne was not sure if this was fortunate or not, but in any case, the King's memory of England's matters was sketchy and had to be replenished with great care.

Anne, Cromwell and the doctors had figured out that, strangely, Henry seemed to recall some events, dates and occurrences in great detail, whereas other things, especially personal matters, had been obliterated from his brain, or so it seemed. For example, he knew that he was Head of the Church of England - he knew of the Act of Supremacy and what it implied. He had mentioned that he was aware of the fact that he had broken with Rome, but how it had come about - his "great matter" and the endless pursuit of Anne -meant nothing to him, so much was obvious.

It was confusing and somewhat painful to know that he did not remember what they'd been through, how much they had meant to each other all these years.

On the other hand, it was equally if not more important right now for Henry to grasp the meaning of being king of England, to remind himself of his great responsibility. And it seemed as if it was not going to be much of a struggle. He was adjusting easily - commanding was in his blood. Also, he seemed pleased with his advisors and friends, and Anne was confident that soon he would resemble the ruler he had been before his accident – and maybe, hopefully, he would become an even greater one.

She had high hopes that his loss of memory would change certain aspects of his personality that had always worried her. In the past two days he had been the kindest, goodliest husband since the beginning of their marriage, and she prayed God that this harmony between them would not vanish all too soon. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think so, but she could not let go of the dream of a Henry who loved and cherished her completely as in the old days.

No, she could not let go of that dream, and would do anything to make it happen. So far it was going well. She knew Henry was falling for her, could see it in his eyes. They were warm and open, trusting even, and Anne rejoiced in it. Perhaps this really was their chance at happiness…

Aye, happiness was in her grasp, but there were still things that might destroy her hopes for the future. She was not sure if it would be good or bad for Henry to regain his memory completely. For while he would of course be reminded of the great love he had once felt for her, Anne Boleyn, and everything they had been to each other, he would also remember other things, things she desired to keep hidden from him.

There was the disappointment he had felt in her empty womb, the lack of a son in their marriage. There was, of course, Jane Seymour. And, worst of all, there was the part she, the Queen, had played in the destruction of people he might come to recall as friends and good-natured souls.

Grudgingly, albeit respectfully, she thought of Thomas More and his strength of character, the magnitude of his integrity. Although she had never loved or even liked him that much, knowing that he supported Katherine of Aragon and hated all Reformers, she had to respect him for the bold manner in which he died, chosing martyrdom over the salvation of his body. The Christian woman in her admired him for his steadfast disposition, his unwavering loyalty to God.

It was probably true, as everyone claimed, that she had played a part in bringing him down, for he had resembled the very things that stood in her way. But the one who made the final decision and signed the death warrant had been Henry, not her. She was not going to put all the blame on her husband, but she knew in her heart that, although she'd wanted More punished or at least rebuked for opposing herself and the King, she had not desired his execution.

But it was done now, and there was nothing she could do to bring Thomas More back to life. One day, when she was before God, she would receive her punishment if indeed she deserved it, and so there was no use in berating herself now for what she might have done to save the man or not. Yes, it was in God's hands to decide over her guilt or innocence, and she recommended herself to Him, beseeching Him to have mercy on her fallible soul. For she had sinned against many - More was not the only one.

_"She is my death, and I am hers…"_

Anne tried to block out the images before her mind's eye, but she couldn't. Deep in her heart, she knew the two people she had harmed more than anyone else in this world. Her memory was full of examples of her ill treatment of them.

She saw herself, rejoicing at Katherine of Aragon's death, taking pride in the fact that she, Anne, was now indeed Queen. She saw herself in Henry's arms at night, telling him that while Katherine and Mary lived, she was unable to conceive a son. She saw herself prancing about, calling Mary a bastard. She saw all all these things and recoiled.

In the hours after Henry's accident, hovering there beside him, she had made a promise to God that she would abjure hatred and vengeance, that she would lead a different life – and she was determined to keep that promise. She could not go on as she had before the accident, destroying herself and wasting her time with hate and regret. There had to be another way. And while she knew that she would never succeed completely in living a life according to God's word, renouncing all sin, she was still desperate to make a difference.

In the bitter months of childlessness before the accident, she had grasped the full meaning of the things she had done to Katherine of Aragon and her daughter. She had finally admitted her sins to herself, and it came with a strange freedom: the realisation that, perhaps, it was time for a change.

Maybe God wanted her to do this:vto approach Mary in a gesture of kindness. Henry's accident had happened for a reason, Anne was sure of it, and maybe the Lord wanted her to reconsider her past decisions and was giving her a chance to make amends. She had promised Him to abjure hatred and vengeance, and she was not a person to go back on her word, especially not on a promise made to the Creator and Maker of all things, the One who would one day preside in judgement over her.

And yet, in spite of her admission of guilt, she could not picture herself begging Mary for forgiveness. The girl had a fierce spirit after all, much like herself, she thought oddly. She still remembered talking to her at Hatfield House, shortly after the birth of Elizabeth.

Overwhelmed by her tender feelings for her new-born daughter, Anne had attempted to appease Mary, realising in a rare moment of sympathy that the young girl loved and needed her father, just as Elizabeth would need her parents when she came of age.

_"I would reconcile you with your father," _she had said,_ "and welcome you back to court, if you will only accept me as Queen."_

When Mary turned her head to look at her, Anne smiled, hoping the girl would consider her offer. But what Mary said then made clear that she was going to do nothing of the kind.

_"I recognize no Queen but my mother. But if the King's mistress would intercede with the King on my behalf, then I would be grateful."_

It was like a slap in the face, an insult as clear-cut and forthright it was unmistakable. Anne was aghast, for once in her life unsure of what to say. She just stared at the younger woman with a wry smile, grudging respect and bitter aversion at war in her breast. Here was a person she could not manipulate, unlike so many others. Mary knew exactly what she wanted and would not settle for anything else, and this made her a force to be reckoned with.

From that day on, she had worked herself up into a frenzy, terrified of what Mary might do to her or her daughter. Sometimes she did not even recognize herself in her bouts of fear, pacing nervously and concocting plans as to how she would deal with the girl and her mother. It had been worse since her miscarriage, when she had first realized how shaky her position was and how many enemies she had made.

For years now Katherine and Mary had been the channel into which she had diverted the swift flood of her emotions: her self-doubt, fear, and the terrible premonition of what might await her should she ever lose Henry's love. It was not that she was naturally unkind, but the strain of fighting for Henry for years, risking everything, and the burden of being his Queen, had taken its toll on her, and as a result her fantasy would go wild when she was nervous about something.

She had thought she was doing what was necessary in order to protect her own child, but now she was beginning to doubt her decisions. And, in any case, Elizabeth was safe now. She was the only and rightful heir to the throne, until Anne bore a son, and as God was her witness, Anne would never let anyone come between her daughter and her status as Princess of England. The child's chances were even better now that Henry did not recall any former resentments and was so fond of his little girl.

Yes, her child was safe for now, and perhaps it was as good a moment as any to approach Mary. She was quite sure that there was nothing Mary wanted more than to be reconciled with her father, and that could be arranged. If only the young lady accepted her, Anne, as Queen, nothing would stand in the way of a reunion.

Until she had figured out an exact plan, though, it would be better to keep these thoughts hidden from Henry. Therefore it would be of importance that nothing and no one reminded him of the existence of the Lady Mary. It might prove necessary to mention Katherine of Aragon at some point, but Anne was determined not to let the King know of his eldest daughter too soon. Too much could go wrong. Perhaps it would anger him when he found out that she'd kept such an important matter from him for so long, but she would deal with that later.

Relieved, she let out a sigh and stroked Elizabeth's hair. "My darling," she said, smiling. "Haven't you had enough of the fishies yet?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Not at all, Mama!" She added sulkingly, "Why do you ask? Must we go now?"

Anne laughed as she got up. "You may stay a little longer, my sweetheart. But I'm afraid your Mama must go now."

"Oh, no, dearest Mama! Please stay! Lady Bryan is not as funny as you are!"

Lady Bryan stood still, baffled at the audacity of her protégé. She looked at the Queen apologetically.

But Anne merely frowned, amused at her daughter's boldness, and scolded: "Don't be so harsh with the Lady Bryan, my sweet girl. She takes good care of you."

She then turned to the governess: "The Princess may stay outside a little longer, but no more than an hour. After that, take her back to the palace where she may get changed. His Grace the King and I will see her later."

"Majesty," the lady bowed, and Elizabeth too bobbed a small curtsey.

Anne waved and walked away, followed by her ladies. She was eager to see Henry and find out how he was coping. They had a lot to discuss, and Brandon would join them later to talk about the great festivity which was scheduled to take place tomorrow.

Breathing in the fresh air, she was overwhelmed by a rush of optimism and goodwill. For the first time in what felt like an aeon, she had hope for her future. Maybe all was not lost. She was still young, she had her strength and her health, and if all went well, she would soon have the love of her husband once more. No matter what had happened in the past, this was the present and she was being offered the chance to start anew. She only had to take the opportunity.

Perhaps she could still become the queen she had always wanted to be, a mistress of dignity and unseething bounty, one that would be cherished for her deeds. She could still make peace with her enemies and keep the things that were most dear to her heart: her daughter, her husband, and her crown.

There was nothing she could not achieve once she'd truly set her mind to it, or was there?

She laughed freely, paying no heed to the incredulous stares of her ladies. She was Anne once more, the woman who had taken a court and a king by storm, and risen to be the most powerful and influential woman ever to have been Queen consort of England. A woman who knew herself and went after what she wanted, no matter the costs.

As she entered the palace, people bowed low, saluting her, and she gave them her most beautiful smile.

Had she known what awaited her, perhaps the smile would have died on her lips.

But, for now, she was hopeful, blissfully unaware of the shape of things to come.


	11. Princely Pleasures

**Chapter 9 : Princely Pleasures**

* * *

The sound of laughter and music was overwhelming.

There was so much merriment and goodwill in the air, such an atmosphere of elation and joy, one could almost grasp it.

Eustace Chapuys, ambassador to the Emperor, absorbed this spirit of jubilance as he entered the great hall at Greenwich palace, where the feast in honour of the King was taking place. Bowing from left to right, accepting greetings and returning them, he made his way through the wide circular arch that formed the entrance to the great room, and looked up in amazement at the lavish decorations in the hall itself.

There, at the back, beneath expensive tapestries, stood the great table that was reserved for the royal pair and their immediate family. It was clothed in gold fabric, laden with expansive crockery, high candles and platters of fruit and sweetmeats. Behind it, in the very middle, stood two throne-like chairs for their Majesties, who had not yet arrived.

All the other courtiers would have to find a spot at one of the other tables that had been arranged in long arrays on both sides of the extensive room. Those too were equipped with all kinds of decorative material and fine crockery.

It was a glorious sight indeed, and Chapuys marvelled at the accuracy and decadency of it all. A multitude of smells filled the air: food, perfume, people's sweat. Everyone was up and about, groups of people talking animatedly, women sticking their heads together, noble children chasing each other through the hall, men and women dancing merrily. Girlish giggling, boisterous laughter and the occasional good-natured curse could be heard.

Everyone seemed to be happy, relieved that their king had survived his dreadful accident and would soon be showing himself to his people after days of seclusion.

Even Chapuys, who was not a man of abandon and courtly distractions, took pleasure in watching all this. He was equally eager to see the king, for he had not seen his Majesty since the day of the accident. Without a doubt, the Concubine had prevented an audience, and in the tumult of the last days the Ambassador had had no chance to talk to Secretary Cromwell, who might have arranged a meeting.

Eustace found the Seymours standing under a window on the left side of the hall, talking. John Seymour and his son were elegantly dressed, and Jane, the daughter, of whom Eustace did not quite know what to make, was splendidly attired in a pale blue dress with long sleeves and silver embroidery of the highest quality. She had on simple, elegant jewellery of silver and aquamarines, and her golden hair was flowing loosely over her slender shoulders. There was an angelic quality to her, Chapuys thought, but something determined and earthy too, hidden beneath her gentle demeanour. He always sensed such things. This girl looked all fragile and sweet, but there was more to her than the eyes could see.

"What a magnificent feast," he commented, smiling amiably at the family. "And my lord Suffolk organized all this?" He spotted the duke across the hall, talking to his wife.

Edward, the least pleasant of the three, spoke up. "Indeed, it was all his doing, and it has turned out to be truly worthy of his gracious Majesty, whom we all long to see again."

Chapuys nodded, knowing that the Seymours had had an audience with his Majesty the other day. He made a mental note to find out what had happened during that meeting.

"I trust his Majesty is in good health?" he asked. "No one has seen much of him these past few days."

John Seymour nodded. "The last time we saw him, he was in excellent spirits," he said almost unwillingly. It was very unlike him.

Chapuys frowned. What was the man omitting? He had carefully avoided to say anything about the king's reaction to Jane. "I hear his Majesty's wife joined you?" he prodded, watching his opposite closely.

"Indeed," John Seymour mumbled, "she played a round of cards with my Jane here." He looked at his daughter. The girl inclined her head, unwilling to be reminded of that evening. She did not want to think about the seeming indifference the king had treated her with, all the while adoring his wife.

_Ah,_ Chapuys thought sharply, s_o it did not turn out as well as you had hoped. _But why was that, he wondered. Was the king, still in shock after his accident, willing to treat his wife in a cordial manner, so as not to frighten her further after his near death experience? Or – terrible thought – was he even willing to make amends?

Eustace had been sure these past few weeks that it was only a matter of time until the Concubine was cast away. If the king was to change his course now, all the Emperor's plans would be destroyed. It must not happen. The Lady Mary must be reinstated as heir, and a new queen had to be placed on the throne. Only then could a strong alliance between England and Spain be formed.

The whore Anne Boleyn stood between the Emperor and everything.

Chapuys' eyes darted around the room even as he tried to keep listening to Edward Seymour's overblown palaver. He had to humour the Seymours, whether he wanted to or not. After all, Jane was to be the new queen.

If only the Concubine was given no chance to ensnare the king once more! He was nervous now, his eagerness to see the king and his whore knew no boundaries. He had to see them in order to find out what was going on between them. And where on earth was Cromwell?

Ah, there he was, next to Charles Brandon. Eustace met the duke's eyes and bowed respectfully.

He had no idea that Brandon was wondering whether the ambassador knew of the king's loss of memory or not. Probably not. After all, Cromwell, the Queen and Charles himself had done everything in their power to keep it secret. Only the three of them, the Boleyn men, Sir Richard Rich, two of the doctors and Archbishop Cranmer knew about it, and they could be trusted not to speak of it to others. He was convinced of their secrecy, simply because he knew that if they did reveal their knowledge of the king's condition, they would pay for it. No, they would not say anything.

It was too dangerous.

Charles knew from what he had seen lately that, if his eyes served him correctly, the king was falling for Anne Boleyn again. It would be dangerous to oppose her now, as vexing a thought as it was. Prior to the accident he had had plans of destroying her, but now the thought had vanished from his mind. Perhaps in a few weeks, when the king would hopefully have recovered his memory, things would be different. But, right now, Anne was too close to Henry, had too great an influence. And apart from that, Charles had seen a new side of her that day when she hovered next to Henry in the pavilion after his accident. She had looked so… humane. So fearful and vulnerable. He hated himself for it, but he could not deny that he had seen a sight of her that touched him, touched him to the very core.

He was so lost in his reverie that the sudden sounding of trumpets startled him. He looked towards the great entrance where the king's usher raised his voice over the tumult of noises in the hall: "Arise! Arise, lords and ladies!"

Everyone who was still seated jumped up from their seats; the dancers ceased their prancing about and lined up correctly, knowing that the moment had come. The king was on his way.

A great murmur of voices arose. The air was so thick it was as if one could cut it with a knife.

Charles saw the Seymours staring in the direction of the entrance, Chapuys next to them, erect, frowning as he waited for the king's arrival. The Boleyns were on the other side of the hall, looking a lot more relaxed than their enemies; next to them Mark Sematon and Thomas Wyatt.

Footsteps could be heard outside the hall. A hush fell over the crowd.

Then, the usher's voice again, announcing solemnly: "His gracious Majesty, the King! Her Majesty, the Queen."

And in strode Henry, king of England, as handsome and vigorous as ever, albeit a little nervous, although only few beholders noticed his strain.

Richly attired in cloth of gold and manifold jewellery, it seemed to them as if he outshone every other man, like the sun outshines the silver moon. A light crown of gold was perched upon his dark head, glittering in the light of the candles in the hall. He lifted his head proudly, daring them to doubt him.

He was magnificent.

A cheer broke lose. Someone cried aloud: "God save the king! God bless your Majesty!"

Soon, a multitude of voices cried out in jubilance, exclaiming good wishes and greetings. The clapping of a thousand hands filled the hall, the rustling of skirts as ladies sank to their knees. Hats were doffed and heads bent in reverence. Smiling faces beamed with happiness and elation.

To Henry it was a mystery. He had not expected this. Such love, such devotion. He had not realized how beloved he was of the people. And all these men and women were _his _subjects? It was a heady thought. A shiver ran down his spine.

Thank God, they had no idea how nervous he was. He prayed they would not notice his eyes darting around, searching for familiar faces. He spotted Charles. The Boleyns. God, what did they all expect of him?

He tried hard to cover his nervousness, plastering a confident expression on his face.

But still, it was overwhelming to see all these people, knowing that most of them had no idea that he had lost his memory. They wanted to see their king, the one they had known for so long. What was he to do? They had rehearsed this moment in his chambers, but reality itself was an entirely different matter ...

Just when he was about to lose his nerves, he felt his hand being pressed firmly.

_Anne. _

He almost sighed with relief. His beautiful Queen. She was here with him. She would help him and guide him through all this. She was the solid rock in a world of confusion.

He turned his eyes to her, pressing her hand in return, a silent gesture of gratitude. She looked at him encouragingly, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. It was comforting to know that she believed in him and knew exactly what to do. He had come to understand that she was a trained and experienced courtier, and her advise on how he should carry himself today had been most welcome.

For a moment he just stood there rejoicing in her perfect beauty, the slender body clothed in an elegant dress of gold damask, the glittering tiara on her head. She was gorgeous... He was a lucky man.

He tore his eyes away from her unwillingly, realizing that all eyes were on him.

Clearing his throat and mustering up his courage, he looked around and said simply, as Anne had advised him: "Thank you, my loving subjects. I thank you all."

Then, looking at Anne and finding reassurance in her gaze, he led her through the throng of courtiers making way for their Majesties. Followed by Anne's ladies and Henry's grooms, they made their way to the great table and positioned themselves in front of the two chairs that had been provided for them.

Henry gulped inwardly. They were all looking at him, he could feel their eyes piercing him.

But courage flowed back to him when he felt Anne's presence next to him, and he managed a small smile. Maybe this would not be so hard after all. His subjects had welcomed him kindly, no, jubilantly! He only had to make the best of this.

The clapping and shouting ceased when he raised his hand. He had practised this and, strangely, it came almost naturally. He guessed it was still in his blood after years of living at court as king.

Breathing in deeply, he readied himself for what he was about to do. He had prepared a speech. Anne did not know its exact content, nor did Cromwell or Charles, only the main features of it.

"My true and loyal subjects," he started off, liking the ring of it. He was beginning to come to terms with this whole subject-thing.

"I have come here today to show myself to you all, and assure you of my health and happiness. It is my desire to thank you all for your kindness and patience."

Loud and boisterous clapping followed his words. He smiled warmly, truly grateful for their sympathy.

"God in His never-ending mercy," he continued, a little louder now, gaining confidence, "has preserved me from death and saved my life. I render thanks to Thee, oh Lord, that Thou hast been pleased to protect and preserve me, Thy humble servant." He closed his eyes in worship, reminding himself of how much he owed to the Almighty.

"Amen!" he heard Charles Brandon shout, and everyone else chimed in with him.

The king smiled benevolently. So much for the speech the others already knew. Now came the part that meant most to him personally.

"On this day, I also wish to thank those who have been to me not only true friends and subjects, but loyal supporters in a time of need." That was abstract enough, he figured. He was careful to avoid anything hinting at his loss of memory.

"First, I wish to thank his Grace, the duke of Suffolk," Henry went on, nodding in Charles' direction, "for being as good a friend as ever, and, of course, for arranging this beautiful festivity," he concluded, gazing in awe at the sumptuous decorations all around him.

Charles bowed low, bathing in the applause of the crowd.

"Furthermore, I wish to thank my lord Secretary Cromwell, my true servant. You have proved yourself to be more than worthy," he said honestly. Cromwell had been such a great help to him ever since the accident: a tireless worker, a trusted and intelligent advisor and sympathetic friend. "Always be assured of my love."

Cromwell humbly inclined his head, and he too received a round of applause.

Soon, though, everyone focused on the king once more, for they realized that he would now address his wife. Many had been wondering how he felt about her now. He had certainly smiled admiringly at her ever since the pair had entered the hall. But had the Queen not been losing favour in the last months?

But nothing was ever certain. As the king raised his voice once more, they strained their ears.

"And lastly," he said, turning towards Anne and taking her right hand in his, clutching it tightly and looking deep into her eyes before facing his subjects again, "I wish to thank her who has been to me the must faithful friend, the most loving companion, whose gentle kindness helped me through the time of convalescence. "

It was a bit of a shot in the dark, for he did not really know if Anne loved him in return. But she had said so in the pavilion after his accident, and her behaviour certainly told of it. One thing was for sure, he loved her. He knew that now, and it was a heady rush. So pure, so glorious a feeling.

"I render thanks to God, that He has been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conform to my inclinations as her I now have," he continued. A hush had fallen over the crowd. All eyes were fixed on him and Anne.

"I pray God save Queen Anne, for I believe with all my heart that never had a man a more gracious nor a more affectionate wife." Meeting her eyes, he saw how moved she was. It gave him such pleasure he wanted to kiss her then and there – he realized he had not kissed her properly since his accident (and he did not remember what it was like, but he thought it must be heaven). God, how he wanted her...

"Let us drink to her now," he said, raising his golden cup. He waited until everyone had raised theirs as well.

"To Anne, Queen of England! And queen of my heart," he added saucily with a cheecky little smile, and it was so much like the Henry they knew that many people laughed out loud.

But there were also astounding murmurs, faces that spoke clearly of great surprise to see Anne Boleyn thus praised. For many months now the king had not spoken of her so affectionately, and many had come to believe that her star was sinking. But now it seemed as if the tides had turned once more and Anne was back in the king's good graces.

"To Queen Anne," it echoed through the hall, and Henry, finishing his drink and putting down the goblet, took Anne's hand in his once more and kissed it.

* * *

As the royal couple sat down and the food was brought in by a multitude of servants, Eustace Chapuys turned away from the two lovers with a sour look on his face.

He had been listening to the king in bewilderment, marvelling at the Concubine who, so it seemed, in a short span of time had won back the king's affection and love. It was not be explained.

He had been so sure that his Majesty was tiring of his wife and eager to make a new marriage… And now this! A public display of love and affection. She had bewitched him once again.

Eustace could not believe it. She was a harlot, a usurper! Now, if nothing happened to prevent it, the Boleyns would rise again, higher than ever before, and the Concubine would flourish, God curse her.

_But how can this be?_ He thought again, unwilling to simply accept things as they were. How could she have reclaimed the king's love in such a short span of time? It was preposterous!

_There must be more to it, there must be._

He had to find out. He needed an audience with the king, and soon. He had to find out where his Majesty stood, had to know if everything was already lost or if there was still a chance to destroy Anne Boleyn.

* * *

Anne, glancing at her husband as the two of them ate in comfortable silence, could not believe her luck. She almost expected him to smile maliciously at her, telling her it had all been a cruel joke. But when he felt her gaze on him and looked up at her, his eyes were kind.

"I…" she began, not knowing what to say. He had basically confessed his love for her in that speech. He had called upon God to preserve her, had made it clear to all that she was his true and beloved wife.

It was unbelievable.

"What is it? Can you not tell me?" He looked intently at her. "Have I… have I made you unhappy?" Perhaps she had found his speech ridiculous? But no, she had looked so happy… almost relieved…

"No!" she exclaimed, bewildered that he would think such a thing and reminded of another day, another celebration, when he had asked her the exact same thing.

_London would have to melt into the Thames first..._

"It's just… " she began, searching for the right words. "Thank you. Thank you for everything." She said simply, smiling at him.

He smiled back wondering if things had occurred between them in their marriage that she was trying to hide from him. Had he ever treated her in a different manner than now? He hoped not, and he could not imagine why he should have done so. She was everything a man could ever wish for.

He ate with good appetite, all the while listening to Anne's amusing stories. She was quite the entertainer. Careful not to attract too much attention to her gestures, she motioned and pointed subtly at several courtiers and whispered in Henry's ear who they were, and whether or not they were of much importance.

"Who is that gentleman?" Henry asked, pointing at a tall older man with grey hair, richly dressed in velvets and fur. He was talking to the Seymours.

"Oh," Anne replied, carefully suppressing her aversion so as not to reveal it to Henry. "That is the Imperial ambassador of Spain, Eustace Chapuys."

Chapuys, feeling their eyes on him, turned around and bowed low, as did the Seymours when they noticed that the royal couple was looking at the man next to them.

Henry inclined his head gracefully, as did Anne, even if only to please him. She noticed with some satisfaction that Henry focused on Chapuys alone, paying no mind to Jane Seymour and her male relatives.

"I should like to talk to him later," Henry said looking at Anne, sure she would approve of it. Surely it was of utmost importance to maintain a good relationship with the ambassador of so powerful a nation as Spain? Henry had made up his mind that, no matter what had happened to him, he would strive to be a good king and make decisions that would benefit England.

Anne nodded, seeing that it was important to him. "If that is what your Majesty desires. I am sure Secretary Cromwell will arrange everything."

"Very well," Henry said gently, giving his wife a warm smile.

* * *

The feast was in full swing, with dancing and merry-making all around when, suddenly, the trumpets sounded and the usher announced the arrival of another royal guest. Henry, in a glorious mood, looked up from his and Anne's entwined hands.

"Make way! Make way for the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!"

People craned their necks in an attempt to miss nothing of the arrival of the royal child. In she came, accompanied by Lady Bryan. Holding her pert head high, the Princess made her way through the throng of courtiers shuffling to let her by and bowing low before her.

She walked towards the great table where the king and queen, Brandon and his wife, and a few other selected nobles, such as the Boleyn men, were seated.

Anne, watching her beautiful girl, swelled with pride. Elizabeth was dressed in a luxurious gown of green and gold damask, and a tiny headdress of pearls. Her red-blonde hair was arranged in a pretty style and her eyes were glittering with excitement.

Before her royal parents, she curtsied prettily. Addressing her father first, as was custom, she chirped in her childish voice: "Votre Majesté! Comment allez-vous?"

Henry, more than happy to see his daughter again, laughed at her cute French and the coy smile on her lips.

"Je vais bien, ma petite," he replied, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Et toi, ma princesse?"

"Ca va bien aussi, mon seigneur, et je demande votre bénédiction."

Henry was all astonishment. His daughter's French was excellent, and she was not yet 3 years old. What a bright little girl, he mused.

"Dieu vous bénisse, ma fille," he said amiably, and, following a spontaneous instinct, walked around the great table and towards Elizabeth. Scooping her up in his arms he pressed a smacking kiss on her smooth cheek. She giggled happily.

Dismissing Lady Bryan for the time being, Henry turned towards Anne, who was still sitting in her chair and smiling broadly, obviously pleased with her daughter's conduct. Putting Elizabeth down, in the hope of doing everything right, Henry said:

"My own daughter. May I present you to her Majesty, Queen Anne."

Elizabeth curtsied deeply. "My lady mother," she said, receiving a warm smile and respectfully inclined head in return.

The king applauded, proud of his little girl and her mother. The crowd fell in, cheering and clapping their hands.

"Continue!" Henry ordered, and the music began anew. Marvelling at how wordlessly people followed his every command, he shook his head a little, then took his daughter into his arms again in order to carry her to their places behind the table.

"My lords," Henry inclined his head to the Boleyns, who bowed low before the king and the Princess as they passed them. Elizabeth greeted her grandfather and uncle respectfully, but then struggled in Henry's arms when she spotted her mother. He put her down. Curtsying once more before the Queen, Elizabeth then strode forward to kiss her mother in such a sweet and dignified manner that Anne found herself deeply moved. Such a perfect little being! Symbol of her and Henry's love. It was such a blessing to call Elizabeth their daughter.

The child took her place next to her mother, where a high chair loaded with seat cushions and pillows had been reserved for the Princess.

After she had been settled and served, Elizabeth ate heartily and entertained her mother and father with her cute stories. The child obviously rejoiced in being so close to her royal parents, and took pleasure in watching the dancing and gaiety all around her.

When she had finished eating, her uncle George Boleyn asked for a dance with the Princess, and the two of them strode onto the dance floor. Another courtier, whom Henry knew to be Mark Smeaton, a musician and friend of Anne's, asked the Queen for a dance, and Anne, turning to her husband for permission, swept him an elegant curtsy when Henry waved her away good-naturedly.

The musicians intoned a cheerful melody, and soon the hall was awash with couples swaying back and forth to the jolly rhythm.

Henry laughed outright at the picture his daughter and George Boleyn made, the tall man graceful with every step, the Princess swirling around with her skirts flowing.

His eyes wandered, and, even as he kept talking to Charles, who sat next to him, he watched with great interest as his courtiers danced and celebrated. It was like a cosmos - every planet moved freely but was bound to unwritten and universal rules, so that everything worked out according to plan.

It was when Mark Smeaton led the Queen to the dance floor that Henry's eyes ceased their wandering and focused on Anne alone.

When Smeaton bowed, she curtsied, a seductive smile on her lips. A new dance began, and from the moment Anne made her first step, Henry was spellbound.

She moved with such grace and refinement, he was sure she must be walking on air. Swirling and turning in Smeaton's arms, she laughed out loud, a laugh that went straight to Henry's yearning heart.

He could not take his eyes off of her. In fascination he watched the slim body spin around and the dark curls fly as she made a little skip, watched her lips move as she said something to her partner that made him laugh.

He did not realize that he was staring at his Queen, a smile of rapture setting his face aglow. People shook their heads. It was like the old days, when Anne Boleyn had driven the king mad with desire.

But even if Henry had known they were wondering at his behaviour, he would not have cared. Anne was so beautiful, surely it was every man's duty to honour and worship her...

With dismay he realized that the song was slowly coming to an end. He could have watched her dance forever and ever.

Mark let go of the Queen's hand and danced around her in a circular motion, then moved sideward as did all the other men, in order to allow the ladies to perform the final part of the dance which consisted of a single spin, a sequence of small steps, and, finally, the raising of one's right arm over the head and holding it that way in an elegant arch.

Henry drank in Anne's movements, beholding in awe her elegant pose, missing absolutely nothing, from her delicate feet in elegant slippers to the folds of her luxurious dress and her glimmering jewels, the exuberant smile on her face and her sparkling eyes.

The hall erupted into a loud round of applause, and Henry, shaking himself out of his reverie, applauded enthusiastically.

Meeting his eyes Anne dropped a curtsy and remained in that position, which he took as an invitation to join her for the next dance. Instinctively, he did not fear the encounter, for he knew in his heart that he must have danced with her a hundred times before, and with pleasure.

Rising from his chair he walked over to her. He took her hand and raised her from her kneeling position. Her touch was electrifying, and he had to muster up all his strength not to tremble with desire. They looked into each other's eyes, losing themselves in the intensity of the moment.

He did not know why, but suddenly he heard himself cry: "Play a Volta!"

Anne smiled smoulderingly.

As the music began, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them behind, or so it seemed. In perfect unison they moved about the floor, paying no mind to the people watching them.

They did not see Chapuys' sour expression, Edward Seymour's disappointed face or Catherine Brandon's enmity. They knew nothing of Cromwell's blank countenance, nor did they notice their own daughter 's excited giggling.

There was nothing there, only the two of them, lost in each other.

Pleasure rippled through Henry's every nerve every time their hands touched or Anne laid a hand on his shoulder. Whenever the dance permitted, he would press her as close to himself as possible, breathing in the scent of her. And she did not reject him. Quite the contrary, it seemed as if she craved his touch, wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He lifted her up from the ground and into his arms, swirling her through the air. Her hand was on his cheek, caressing him. The touch of her skin drove him mad.

He sat her down reluctantly and watched with passion-glazed eyes as she danced around him. It was as if he had seen this before, the two of them dancing a Volta. The desire he felt was so familiar, so all-consuming.

When she stood before him again, she halted for a fleeting second, then ran quickly towards him. Henry snaked his arms around her hips and lifted her up once more, holding her tightly. She bent backwards in his arms as he twirled her around, allowing him a good view of her breasts and her elegant neck. He stared at her décolleté, panting heavily from the exercise, the sight of her, his lust.

Finally, when she was back on her feet, they grabbed each others hands and performed the last steps of the dance before Henry released her. Anne sank into a deep curtsy, looking up at him with piercing eyes.

Mesmerized, he bowed, still staring at Anne when the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

With all the dignity he could muster, Henry offered his arm to his wife and led her from the dance floor.

* * *

Jane felt her brother's glare on her and flinched, sensing his displeasure.

She did not dare look at him, knowing what she would read in his eyes: _Did you see that? The king's passion, the way he looked at the Queen? You should have been the one dancing with him, the object of his desire! What have you done to lose his favour?_

Thank God her father was not looking at her, instead concentrating on the king and queen who were now talking amiably to their courtiers, one of them Secretary Cromwell.

Jane sighed inaudibly. She did not want anyone to look at her. In fact, she desired nothing more than to be alone right now.

Looking around, though, she realized that this was not the time to make an unobtrusive exit. She noticed with great dismay that not only her brother was looking at her. People were staring, she could feel their eyes boring into her skin. It was humiliating.

Plastering a smile onto her face, she tried hard to ignore their stares. Unfortunately there was no one she could turn to for conversation or diversion. Her brother was now in deep conversation with their father, and Chapuys, who had been talking to them, stood in front of the great table, where Cromwell presented him to the king.

Jane's eyes darted wildly about the room, but no one made a move towards her.

She was alone.

Holding back tears, she looked at the king, hoping against all reason that he would come to her or at least acknowledge her from afar. But he didn't. He was engaged in a lively conversation with the Ambassador, all the while holding the Queen's hand in his own.

Jane gulped. She did not know why and did not welcome the feeling, but it hurt. It hurt to see him pay so much respect to his wife and treat her with such love and devotion when until recently he had sworn to her, Jane, that he loved and admired her. That he needed her. And, worst of all, she did not have the slightest idea how this sudden change had come about.

Before his accident, the king had treated her with such kindness and affection, calling her his Guinevere and speaking highly of her character. He had even praised her beauty.

At first his interest simply flattered her, for he was a charming man, and to have so handsome and powerful person at her feet was a heady rush. She bathed in his praise and delighted in the compliments he paid her. Surely that was no sin in itself? After all, she had done nothing at all to encourage him.

Then, when her father and brother suggested that she should be Queen instead of Anne Boleyn, her perspective changed. It was no longer a game, it was getting serious. She knew what her family expected of her and it was frightening. Deep inside her, a voice urged her not to give in to this folly, reminding her that she could never truly belong to the king. He did not know all her secrets. He had not the slightest idea that she did not truly love him, nor would ever do so. Not even her brother and father knew what was going on inside her, naively assuming that she was in love with the king.

But, God have mercy on her, she was not. The king thought of her as pure and innocent, when in truth she was in love with another man, and always would be.

It was because of that man's rejection that she had first considered giving in to her family's wishes and the king's growing affection. Hurt and bewildered, not knowing how to live without her beloved, his Majesty's approach had presented a welcome diversion from her present pain.

She had thrown herself head over heals into the romance, trying to forget her misery. Also, if she wanted to be honest with herself, she had taken a fancy to the king's smouldering eyes, his amiable conduct and the sweetness of his speech. It was balm to her wounds, knowing that here was a man who loved her boundlessly, when the one she truly wanted would not - or could not - find a way to be with her truly, as man and wife.

_But there's another reason_, a voice inside her head chided her.

_This_, she thought bitterly as her eyes surveyed the room, taking in her surroundings.

_All of this. _

The glitter and the glamour, the pomp and celebration. The tiara on the Queen's head, the admiration of the courtiers. She had wanted all of this to be hers. Somehow, the prospect of becoming Queen of England had enraptured her so much she had not cared that, in order to make it come true, she would have to supplant another woman. The thought alone of abundant riches, a life in luxury by the king's side, had extinguished all scruples and doubts she might have had. And also, perhaps even more importantly, there was in her the desire of a lonely young woman to amount to something in this fickle world, to achieve a higher goal than average women, to be remembered. And what position offered better chances to earn great renown than that of a queen?

Yes, her broken heart, her fancy for the king's flattery, and her desire to live a life of grandeur had brought her to this - and to what avail?

As she watched the king she wanted to scream at him: _Why? Why the sudden change? You were my only hope for salvation… _

It seemed as if all was lost now, as if there was no longer a chance to win him over. Jane had watched him dance with the Queen in awkward fascination. He had looked at Anne as if there had never been any other woman to tempt him. And it was understandable, was it not? How could she, meek and pale Jane, have hoped to outshine the likes of Anne Boleyn? It would have given her great pleasure to overthrow that woman, the destroyer of Katherine of Aragon, but it was not to be. As annoying a thought it was, it seemed as if the Boleyn whore was back in the king's good and kind graces, and the thought of opposing her when she had the king's love was nothing but frightening.

And yet, it was so strange. All of sudden the king was in love again? Jane had been so sure that he was tiring of his wife, that he wanted a new beginning. It had been her wish, too, to start again and begin a new life. Together they could have made it work. He desirous to be reborn, she herself trying to forget the tragic love that was threatening to drive her into madness.

But alas! Perhaps it was not to be.

_Nevertheless, _she thought, looking suspiciously at the royal couple_, I shall find out what made him forget me so soon._

* * *

After his conversation with the king, Chapuys was none the wiser.

Cromwell had presented him to his Majesty and not left his side at all through the entire conversation, which had greatly disturbed the ambassador. He hated it when people interfered, especially people as powerful as Cromwell.

He had been so desirous to talk to the king that, when his Majesty himself expressed the wish to talk to him, he was more than pleased. But, during the entire conversation, neither Cromwell nor the Concubine gave him any chance to delve further into the king's mind, and the almost sickening amount of attention the king paid to the harlot next to him, never letting go of her hand, assured Chapuys of a truth he was completely unwilling to acknowledge: that the whore had indeed bewitched the king once more and regained his favour.

No, he had not found out what he had intended – that it was all just a show, that the king was still willing to rid himself of his so-called wife. The only truly remarkable thing Eustace had perceived was that the king seemed almost strangely amiable. He spoke with such a goodly smiling countenance, such respect and friendliness, he was almost unrecognisable.

True, he had been generous and kind before, on occasion. But never like this, so at ease, so entirely benevolent in his conduct.

He had enquired after the Emperor's health and asked animated questions concerning the Spanish realm. Chapuys, aghast at the sight of this new Henry VIII, did his best to answer the king's questions to his best ability, all the while wondering what had happened in the short days after the accident at the tournament.

Only a few people had gotten to see anything of the king at all, and on the information circulating at court one could not rely, for it was mostly idle gossip. So, he had had no chance to see for himself what was happening, and had instead busied himself writing letters to the Emperor and the Lady Mary, reporting the events of the accident and ifs aftermath to them.

By now, Chapuys was convinced that the accident itself, or the days that after it, had led to a change in Henry VIII that might as well have a great impact on the future. Something had changed, he just did not know what it was. Not yet. There must be an explanation for the king's excellent spirits and his renewed affection for the Concubine, there must be!

Meeting Cromwell's eyes as he walked away from the royal couple after a formal bow, he made a mental note to see the Secretary in private as soon as possible. Perhaps, when the excitements of this feast were over, in the sober light of day, he would be able to find out more.

* * *

That night, long after the candles in the great hall had been extinguished, Anne shot up in bed when she heard the noise of footsteps on the wooden floor of her bedroom.

Panting heavily, she peered into the darkness. A shiver ran down her spine when she spotted a figure next to the door. Where were her ladies? Why had they not warned her?

"Who… who's there?" she asked warily, unsure what to do. Cold sweat of fear was running down her back.

Suddenly the figure stepped forward. Anne led out a small shriek and closed her eyes on impulse, expecting the intruder to attack, but nothing happened.

When she opened her eyes again, she gasped in surprise.

_Him. _

He looked at her, his face but faintly illuminated by the light of the half-moon shining through the windows. She stared back.

The sapphire of his orbs did strange things to her. She leaned forward almost against her will, the blanket falling from her body, revealing her flimsy nightgown.

As if encouraged by her movement, he took a step forward. His eyes pierced through her and she shivered in anticipation. Before she knew why, she was holding out her hand to him, wanting to feel his touch, needing him.

When his hand made contact with hers, fire spread through her body.

Her head fell back as his fingers wandered along her arm to her shoulders. He caressed her neck, her face, slid his fingers along her moist lips that had parted in pleasure. She heard him breathe deeply, felt his hand tremble. A moan escaped her mouth when he touched her breasts, stroking them softly through the fabric of her nightgown.

"Anne…" he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and lowering his face to hers, and the unmistakable passion in is eyes was her undoing.

Their lips met in a scorching kiss, so great was their mutual need.

All of Anne's love for him, the desire that had been suppressed for so long, flowed into that kiss like balm into a wound, arousing her senses, soothing her mind, healing her soul.

The lust that cursed through her veins at the feeling of his tongue dancing with hers was like poison, but she welcomed its effects. Her skin tingled with pleasure, she trembled in every limb as Henry's hands raked over her body, ravishing her. This was how it was supposed to be, the two of them in a heated embrace, worshipping each other's bodies.

His rough skin on hers set her afire, the beauty of his body was intoxicating. She revelled in the taste of him, the fullness of his lips.

When they became one in the darkness, a glorious feeling of redemption engulfed her. She moaned his name, losing herself completely. Her body was on fire, burning, burning…

In his arms she was herself again, void of all fear, purely Anne. He was her tormentor, her saviour, the very ecstasy consuming her.

He was the beginning and the end of this world, and she could not get enough.


	12. Visions of a great ruler

**Chapter 10: Visions of a great ruler**

* * *

The weeks following the King's public appearance were a happy time for the royal couple.

Henry, suffused with love and desire, showered Anne with gifts, anxious to please her and make her happy. She was the centre of his attention, the source of his strength, and he could not live without her. Sometimes he mused that he would easily sacrifice all, his kingdom and riches, for an hour in her arms.

None could compare to her. He was enchanted with her beauty, her fierce spirit and the sharpness of her mind. She was by far the funniest companion, the best dancer, the most learned lady at court. No woman knew better than her how to carry herself with poise, how to converse intelligently on any given topic, how to dance and sing and enjoy the sweet things life had to offer. Her complexity was alluring, the fascination of her eyes never waned. Henry was helpless before her unbelievable sex appeal.

He soon found that she was of inconsiderable value to him, not only as a wife and partner in his private life, but also as an advisor. She knew exactly how his court worked, knew his friends and enemies by heart and had a great interest in all matters concerning the realm of England.

And to govern England, so much was clear, was no easy task.

In the past weeks, Henry had done everything in his power to grow into the business of ruling so powerful a kingdom. He had endeavoured to refresh his knowledge although, strangely, he remembered many things of importance in such detail, it was as if he had never had his fateful accident.

It was not so much facts and names he had forgotten – for example, he knew exactly his relationship to Francis and Charles, the rulers of France and Spain – but personal things and, above all, what it meant to be a king of such great power and influence.

It took much strength to behave the way people expected, but he did his best to hide his anxieties. He knew they must never know of his loss of memory. He had a feeling that if people ever learned of it, turmoil would be the consequence. Cromwell and Anne had warned him that some people might be desirous to use any such "weakness" against him, and that it would be best to keep his amnesia a secret. And so he strived to be the jolly and generous king he had been before the accident – for this was how people would describe him whenever he asked them to outline his character.

Indeed he advanced quickly, and soon found out how to hide his emotions best, as if he had been born to the task. Luckily, he had faithful and loyal advisors who did their best to make things as easy for him as possible. Cromwell never rested, or so it seemed. He was a man of amazing intelligence and great wit, who seemed to truly care for England and her interests, and never tired of working to the benefit of his master. Henry accepted his help gratefully, engaging his Secretary in discussions on anything that came to his mind, asking questions about his own past and taking advice on how to deal with matters of state.

Cromwell guided and counselled Henry as he cut his way through a seemingly endless amount of bureaucracy and other business that concerned a king in his daily life. There were petitions to sign, favours to grant, decisions to make and courtiers to be dealt with. The correspondence with foreign princes had to be maintained, estates to be managed and institutions to be controlled. Of course, much of the work was done by Cromwell and other high nobles, but as king, Henry was always the last resort, the one to give his blessing to his servants' actions.

Part of him gloried in it. It was demanding work that sometimes stretched him to the limit and racked his nerves, tired him and robbed him of sleep. But it was also his destiny.

Already, after so short a span of time since the accident, he had accepted his position as ordained by God. To rule England was his God-given duty and fortune, and he had to make the best of it. He did not know why the Almighty in his everlasting wisdom had desired for him to have that accident and start anew, but surely there must be a reason for it.

In his natural arrogance, he refused to consider the thought that before the accident he might have done things that dissatisfied God, but instead simply accepted the fact that the Lord wanted him to make a fresh start and rule England to the best of his abilities. And to that end, he swore to himself, he would work tirelessly and with all that was in him.

Henry had great visions for the future, and shared them with his advisors and friends. He wanted his kingdom to be glorious, a peaceful and progressive nation of great renown.

He was full of ideas and renewed vigour, and people noticed it. He spent a lot of time with his nobles, nourishing their loyalty. He showed himself to the lesser folk, delivering speeches in public and visiting cathedrals and smaller chapels all over London. He blessed children, received people's greetings and petitions. He listened to complaints, promising to do what he could to improve things. And indeed, he had every intention to do so. He was full of energy and life, dedicating his time to his subjects and their concerns. For this spirit of benevolence and goodwill he earned cheers wherever he went, and people said they had not seen him so joyous and motivated in a long time.

His days were filled with meetings, audiences and visits. He met a great deal of people of importance and took an eager interest in their lives. To satisfy his lusty courtiers, he organized several masquerades and dances that were welcomed enthusiastically. Apart from these excitements, Henry also busied himself with extensive reading and the patronization of the arts. He commissioned a great portrait of himself and Anne, having noticed the lack of one, and another one of his young daughter.

Elizabeth was a constant delight to him. With Henry's permission, Anne had kept the girl at court instead of sending her back to Hatfield immediately after the comeback festivity, and Henry was grateful for it. His daughter was marvellously learned for her young age, and prematurely cautious. He took great pride in having fathered such a brilliant child and showed her off to his courtiers whenever he could. Only the best was good for her who was, after all, the heir to his throne until he and Anne had a son.

The great obsession with begetting a son he had nurtured before his accident had been lost. He was unaware of the all-consuming desire he had always had for a male child, unaware that Anne's empty womb had caused him distress before his fall changed both their lives. He was happy in his marriage, supremely happy, and was certain that one day in the near future, Anne would give birth to a son. Elizabeth alone was proof of Anne's fertility and ability to bear healthy children, and Henry did not give much thought to fathering a boy at all. He just assumed it would happen sooner or later, and he felt neither need nor desire to put any pressure on his Queen.

And she was such a beautiful and gracious Queen. He saw the happiness in her eyes when they were together, and it gave him such pleasure he could never be parted from her for long. Unfortunately, his many duties often kept him away, but whenever he could he had dinner with her or invited her to join him for a stroll through the castle's vast gardens.

"Tell me," he said one day as they walked past one of the great fountains, the cool air of late March tickling their skin. "How did we first meet, you and I?"

The subject had piqued his curiosity for quite some time, but he had never approached it before.

"Why, your Grace," Anne replied playfully, looking at him in mock surprise. "Are you telling me you don't remember how we first met?"

Her eyes were sparkling with mirth. She had so much life! Henry loved that about her - the little games she played, her teasing humour. He decided to play along.

"Alas, sweet gentle lady!" he began, taking her gloved hand in his. "Don't hate me for my forgetfulness! How can I repay you?" He whispered into her ear, his arms snaking around her slender frame. He pressed her to himself, breathing in her scent, kissing her earlobe in a teasing manner. She chuckled, her chest vibrating against his.

"I'll think of something, my love," she cooed before freeing herself from his embrace and walking ahead of him. She looked over her shoulder, smiling that little smile of hers that always worked its magic. He followed her, his eyes wandering from her luscious dark locks to her swaying hips.

"So, tell me," he resumed the initial conversation, "how did we met? I can't believe I don't remember."

"Neither can I. It is not very flattering to know you don't remember our first meeting." She laughed heartily.

"So remind me, sweetheart," he said, taking her hand as they continued walking together in Greenwich's spacious gardens. No one would dare disturb them; Henry had demanded privacy. He wanted to be alone with his wife, have her all to himself.

"It was at a masquerade. You performed as Honesty, clothed in black and gold, with a crown on your head, whereas I was Perseverance, one of the ladies that represented the virtues. You took me as your prisoner. A dance followed, and you asked me who I was. That's how it all began…" Her voice trailed off; she was lost in thought.

"Perseverance… very fitting name," Henry smiled. "But, according to what you told me the other day about my courting you for almost 7 years, it would also fit me." He could imagine courting her for so long, as fascinating a woman as she was. He was sure that her allure would never wane - she knew the art of seduction.

"Oh yes," Anne agreed, "I've never been able to get rid of you since that day. And I've never wanted to." Her voice was serious. She looked at him, and for the thousandth time Henry wondered if there was more to their story, if he had ever mistreated her.

"Anne… you won't be rid of me," he said truthfully. He raised a hand to stroke her soft cheek. "I love you."

She put her hand atop of his. "And I you," she said, closing her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her tenderly.

"If there's anything that went wrong between us before I fell," he began after breaking the kiss, "no matter what it was, I want you to forget it. I'm sorry for it. Please."

She seemed genuinely touched. "As you wish. And thank you, for everything. You are too good to me - "

"No," he interrupted, pressing a kiss onto her gloved hand. "You are the most beloved. Never doubt that."

"I won't. It's just…" She turned away from him.

Henry frowned, putting a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "What is it, Anne? Can you not tell me?"

She chose her words carefully, he could see that. What was torturing her?

"It is just that I, as everyone else, have enemies. My position as Queen alone is reason enough to envy me. And, I fear that my enemies might side against me one day and try to bring me down for no other reason than to replace me. I fear people will spread lies about me... Lies that may come to your ears - " Her voice was shrill. He had never seen her like this before.

"Shhh," Henry tried to calm her down. "Shhh. Don't think of such things. I am the king, and I love you. I will protect you. If you can trust no one else, trust me. Trust us."

The look of hope and love in her eyes tore at his heart and he embraced her tightly, crushing her to him.

"I trust you," she mumbled, clinging to him and burying her face in his neck.

As he held her close, Henry swore to himself that no one would be allowed to doubt his Queen. He would think of something to raise her even higher, to proclaim to the world that his wife was more dear to him than any other creature living.

Nothing on earth would come between them.

* * *

Thomas Cromwell received Ambassador Chapuys rather unwillingly, having to suspend his work on a stack of very important documents concerning the dissolution of the monasteries. These days he hardly had a minute, and the Ambassador, with his boundless inclination to scheming and courtly gossip, was not the kind of person he wanted to talk to right now. But it could not be helped.

"Excellency," he greeted the man with a smile, a thick layer of false politeness hiding his true feelings. "It is good to see you."

Chapuys nodded, sinking into the chair his host offered to him. "Mister Secretary. I'm glad you've found the time to receive me in private. I've been longing to talk to you."

"What can I do for you?"

Chapuys eyed his opposite suspiciously. He had to find out where Cromwell stood, whether or not there was still a chance to destroy the Boleyn faction and restore the Lady Mary to the succession. If Cromwell backed out, he would have to find other allies, and it would be difficult to find any one as powerful and close to the Crown as Cromwell.

"May I inquire after his Majesty's health?" He began cautiously. "The king seemed so merry and vigorous the last time I saw him." It had been two days ago at a public speech the king delivered, accompanied by the _Whore._

"Indeed," Cromwell replied good-naturedly. "His Majesty is in excellent health and has recovered very well from his accident in the two months that have passed. He renders thanks to God every day for preserving him, and is now more motivated than ever to rule England to the best of his abilities." There, that was the kind of general answer he had wanted to give.

"The Lord is good," Chapuys agreed. "It is a comfort to know that no harm of any kind has come to his Grace, no irreversible damage."

Cromwell frowned slightly. How much did the Ambassador know? Chapuys, of all people, must _never _learn of the king's loss of memory. It would be disastrous. He would surely strive to poison the king's mind with stories of Katherine of Aragon and the Lady Mary. It was a miracle that Henry had not yet learned of the existence of his elder daughter and his divorce from Katherine of Aragon, and Cromwell wanted to keep it that way, for now. He had an agreement with the Queen that she would be the one to tell Henry of his daughter and Katherine.

During the past two months, he had endeavoured to keep Chapuys away from court as much as possible, and had had people feed him useless gossip. Luckily, the Ambassador had not become suspicious yet, but he was never to be underestimated. Cromwell could only pray that the man had not found out anything about the king's amnesia.

"I can only assure you once again of his Majesty's health and happiness," Cromwell tested the waters. He saw no treachery in the Ambassador's eyes and breathed a little easier. Perhaps Chapuys really did not know.

"I am well aware of the happiness that seems to fuel the king's motivation," Chapuys answered. "What on earth could be the reason for such supreme joy?"

Of course he knew the answer, but he wanted to know how Cromwell thought of Anne Boleyn's renewed rise to favour. Had he sided with her? And, if he had, was he willing to break his promises to her?

"His Majesty's trust in God and his love for his subjects are the greatest gifts," the Secretary said silkily. "That is what he draws his strength from. But of course his private happiness, the joy of being a husband and father, must be considered too."

Chapuys nodded warily. "I understand their Majesties are in a very gracious and generous mood. Perhaps, in their mercy, they might consider inviting the Lady Mary to court one of these days?" It came out of the blue, and with pleasure he watched the look of barely concealed indignation on Cromwell's face.

"I am sure their Majesties will consider it if I put it to them. Should you desire to recommend the Lady Mary to his Majesty, I will be more than glad to dispatch your letter to the King." Cromwell concluded, immediately dashing Chapuys' hope for an audience with his Majesty.

"Very well. Should I feel the need to do so, I know whom I can turn to."

They sat in silence for a moment, brooding, both endeavouring to hide their true thoughts from one another, to keep their expressions under control.

"By the way," Cromwell said suddenly, "her Majesty the Queen desires an audience with you."

Of course Anne had never uttered such a wish, but he was sure he would be able to convince her of the advantage it would give her over Chapuys. He knew exactly what the Ambassador was trying to do: he was still waiting for a chance to destroy Anne and would gladly have him, Thomas, as an ally. But Anne was too strong right now, too close to the king, to be opposed. Cromwell was unwilling to move against her, partly because she had once been a great friend of his and he was somewhat desirous to be on good terms with her again, and partly because it would be nothing but foolish to try to get rid of her now. The king was obsessed with her and yielded to her every wish. She would have all of their heads.

"With me?" Chapuys seemed genuinely surprised. He strugged to bite back a nasty retort. "What could her Majesty possibly want from me?" He said instead.

"That I do not know. I think she wishes simply to pay you her respects and to receive yours in return."

It was a subtle hint, but there were few at court who had a better nose for subtleties than the Ambassador. Chapuys understood immediately. So Cromwell was on the Queen's side. This was not good. Not good at all.

"I am honoured," his Excellency replied sarcastically. Of course he had absolutely no desire to speak to the Boleyn whore, but what could a man do? At least he would be able to assure her once more of the fact that he and his master would _never_ support her claim to the throne.

"Very well," Cromwell said with a smile, then rose from his chair. He led Chapuys to the door.

"I shall arrange everything, then." He could only hope that Anne would play along. But why would she not? After all, the issue of the Lady Mary would have to be solved sooner or later.

"I thank you. I bid you good day, my lord Cromwell."

Chapuys stalked out of the room, leaving the Secretary to this thoughts.

* * *

Jane Rochford, née Parker, watched with curious eyes as Ambassador Chapuys emerged from Cromwell's rooms. She sensed that he was displeased with how things had gone in the Secretary's office.

_Oh well_, she thought bitterly. _Is that not the very essence of life itself? Nothing ever turns out as planned._

She herself was the best example of this universal truth. Caught in a loveless marriage, without influence or status, she was living a life she would never have deemed possible before she got into this mess.

But it was true, and it pained her. She was tired of it all; she knew she had to do something or die of despair. And it was there, as she watched Chapuys walk away, that she decided to seek him out. He was a man of some influence, and they were both united in their hatred for one family, a family that stood between them and everything.

The Boleyns.

To him, they were the embodiment of sin and ruthless ambition, of false pride and heresy. Destroying them was his ultimate goal. To her, they were the reason why she had to live like this, unloved, unnoticed. Her own husband despised her, had raped her and robbed her of her dignity. The Queen herself was the only one he cared for, Jane knew, and she despised the woman for it, even if Anne could not help being so beautiful and clever, in all things so much more appealing than Jane herself.

The Boleyns.

They had to go - she wanted them out of the way. A cold sweat ran down her spine, but she ignored it. It was a sin to desire someone else's death, but she did not care.

She would go to Chapuys and speak to him. If Cromwell refused to help, maybe she could be of some use to the Ambassador. After all, she was close to that family of usurpers.

Jane looked around nervously, afraid people would see through her and guess her murderous thoughts. But they suspected nothing. To them she was simply the wife of George Boleyn, a part of the most powerful faction at court. They probably thought she was happy to see the Queen back in the king's good graces, to see her husband's family rise even higher than before.

Well, she was not.

She was obsessed with the thought of ending her suffering, of making a change, and she knew the old saying: that obsession can change the world.


	13. She is my death and I am hers

**Chapter 11: She is my death, and I am hers**

* * *

**March 1536**

„_This is all I know of Mary: that she is my death, and I am hers..."_

Anne put her hands to her temples, trying to block out the words that had been echoing in her head for days.

It was no use.

No matter what she did, she could not get Mary out of her thoughts. The girl's image was before her eyes every waking second, haunting her.

She tried to concentrate on her book once more but failed miserably. She sighed.

Henry, who was sitting in a big armchair next to her own, looked up from his book when he noticed her movements out of the corner of his eye.

"Sweetheart… what is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Anne replied evasively, unwilling to share her concerns with him. "I just can't seem to concentrate on my book right now." This was odd, since she was a great reader and loved almost nothing better than to delve into subjects like theology, for example. But not today.

They had played cards for an hour or so, and Anne had parted him from a considerable amount of money. Now they were both absorbed in their books, or, rather, Henry was. Anne felt that if she tried to read one more page, her head would burst. She could not make sense of the words before her eyes.

Henry laughed. "I understand. It's been a long day. "

They had attended Mass together this morning, as they did every Sunday. Afterwards, they had visited some of the new houses Henry had commissioned in an attempt to improve the living of the poorer classes and the outcasts of society. In these past weeks, the King had been so desirous to prove himself to all as a prince of benevolence and kindness, that no costs had been spared, and the royal couple often showed up at these newly opened establishments.

After their return from the city, they had celebrated in the great hall with over a hundred courtiers, and Anne had danced the afternoon and evening away until her feet were sore. She had then retreated with Henry from the great hall to his chambers, in order to spend some time alone with him before they both retired to bed.

Anne almost wished to bid Henry goodbye now and seclude herself in her chambers, where she would have the leisure to be alone with her thoughts.

"… odd today." Her husband's voice shook her out of her reverie. "Let me be of assistance, my love," he said smilingly.

He got up from his seat and walked over to her. Standing behind her, he put his hands on her temples and began to massage them gently. Anne closed her eyes, enjoying his touch.

"That feels heavenly," she sighed, resting the back of her head against his torso. This was something she loved about Henry. He could be the best comforter in the world, both physically and emotionally.

_"Comfort is a beautiful thing…"_ A mocking voice spoke to her out of the blue. Her eyebrows flew together in apprehension. She knew that voice.

It was Mary's.

With an effort she managed not to jerk forward in shock, knowing that Henry was still massaging her. She just sat still, listening breathlessly to Mary's words, wondering what to reply.

_"Sometimes I think comfort is an illusion…"_ The girl added in a rather sarcastic tone, _"Don't you think?"_

Anne frowned. She did not open her mouth but in her mind she heard herself reply: _"Surely you take comfort in many things, Lady Mary."_ It came out less favourable than she had planned, which disturbed her. She never found the right words when dealing with Mary, but always managed to sound haughty instead.

"_I would take great comfort in seeing my royal father once more. One kiss from him, one embrace, would have the power to soothe me." _Her voice was sad and reproachful.

"_Why are you telling me this? What do you want?" _Was all Anne managed to say. She felt uncomfortable, as she always did in Mary's presence. For some odd reason, this young lady had the power to make her feel like a small, overbearing child.

Mary laughed mirthlessly. _"I wanted to congratulate you on your happy marriage and the good life you do lead. It seems his Majesty loves you a great deal…"_

"_Of course does,"_ Anne answered indignantly.

_"Would he still love you, Madam, if he knew that you're hiding from him the existence of a most beloved daughter?"_ Mary's voice was bitter now, accusing.

_"Beloved daughter?"_ Anne spat as she faced Mary before her mind's eye, momentarily forgetting herself. _"Elizabeth is his only legitimate child!"_

She saw Mary's lips twitch, and prepared herself for that smug smile of hers, but instead the girl's smile was sad. The accusation in her eyes vanished, leaving only sadness.

_"Remember your vow…"_ Mary said solemnly. "_Remember what you said when you prayed for his Majesty's life to be spared. 'I shall abjure hatred, vengeance and conceit…'"_

"_I remember!" _Anne retorted, angered by Mary's words._ "And haven't I kept my promise? I have shown nothing but kindness to my subjects ever since Henry's accident. Even to my enemies! What about Brandon, Cromwell…. Haven't I been kind to them…?"_ She trailed off.

_"But not to me",_ Mary stated simply, tonelessly. _"And, like your daughter, I am born of a king."_

With that, Mary fell silent and said no more. The echo of her voice faded away. Anne called after her, but there was nothing.

Mary was gone, leaving the Queen's thoughts in turmoil.

Anne's eyes flew open. She saw Henry above her, his gaze fixed on her. He was smiling, wherefore she presumed that he had noticed nothing of her inner encounter with Mary.

"Ah, those eyes, my love," he exclaimed, his smooth voice balm to her soul after Mary's upbraiding. "I'll never get tired of seeing them."

With that, he bent his head and kissed her sensually, his hands wandering down her temples, her shoulders and collarbone, finding her breasts and kneading them gently.

She felt his velvety lips on hers and felt home. His kisses always evoked in her a feeling of belonging, of congeniality. She was his and he was hers, and she prayed it would always be this way. Kissing him back, Anne momentarily forgot about Mary and her accusations, simply enjoying the moment.

But, as he broke the kiss and embraced her from behind, resting his head on top of hers, the unwelcome thoughts returned.

Did Mary have a point? Would Henry stop loving her if he found out that his Queen, his own wife, whom he trusted with his life, had kept from him the existence of his eldest daughter? And, if he did fall out of love with her, what would he do?

Locked in his warm embrace, it seemed impossible that he would ever abandon her again. These past two months since his accident, she had been the centre of his world once more, his one true soulmate. Sometimes it was to her as if they had travelled in time, back to the start, when their great love had begun. Yes, she was happy now. _The most happy…_

But the world was a slippery place, and she knew Henry.

Of the darkest places of his heart she had only a vague idea, but she knew him well enough to imagine what he might be capable of. She had already come too close to the fire before his accident, when his love had started to wane.

His loss of memory had saved her, she knew that. Also, he seemed changed, with all his visions and goodwill and the affection he was bestowing on everyone around him.

And yet, deep in her heart, Anne knew that the old Henry was still inside of him, the Henry who was capable of abandoning one wife and then tiring of the next one when a new blonde temptation came into his life. That Henry was still there, sleeping, and she did not want him to wake up. She wanted to keep this Henry forever, a loving, caring man who reminded her so much of the golden prince of Christendom she had fallen in love with, long ago.

As she put her hands over his, she slowly came to terms with a realization that was bitter, but in a strange way relieving in its clarity.

Mary was right.

No matter how much Henry loved her now, there was still a chance that he might tire of her again.

In these past weeks she had pushed such thoughts away, bathing in her husband's great love and rejoicing in their new happiness together.

But now, now that Mary's image was haunting her, accusing her of being unkind, and reminding her that even the greatest love could be quenched, she could no longer hide herself.

She realized that she had to do something to secure her own position. If she wanted to secure not only Henry's deep love forever, but also his eternal respect and, equally important, the respect of the people of England, she had to take action. Perhaps now was the time to approach her enemies, and do everything in her power to strengthen her own claim to the throne as Queen of England.

She also reminded herself of the vow she had made to God. She had promised to abjure things like vengeance and hatred, arrogance and conceit. And although it was true what she had told Mary, that she had tried hard to be kind to her enemies and show a general goodwill to all people, she could still have done more.

So far, she had not really tried to make peace with any of those she had considered her mortal enemies before Henry's accident –Brandon, Chapuys, the Seymours… God, there were so many. But, most importantly, she had done nothing at all to approach Mary. For two months now she had toyed with the thought of appeasing her, but somehow she had never actually taken the step.

She shuddered to think what would happen if Henry learned of Mary's existence from someone else. Of course, Chapuys and all the others were clueless that Henry had no idea that his eldest daughter even lived. It was a miracle that the King had not heard of her yet. But it was only a matter of time before someone did talk about her, and then Henry's rage would be terrible. He had always been fond of the girl.

Anne knew she had been playing with fire, and she was beginning to think that if she did not do something soon, she would be burned.

In a moment of clarity, she realized that now was the moment to finally reach out to Mary, and try to get her to accept her as Queen, so that she could be reconciled with her father. It was time to show some Christian charity and benevolence to a girl who was, after all, as she had rightfully claimed, born of a king - whether legitimate or not.

Anne was sure that her own father would not approve of her plan, but she was determined. Once she explained everything to him, he would surely agree that an alliance with Mary's faction would strengthen the Boleyns' position immeasurably.

Breathing in Henry's familiar scent, Anne made a decision.

She would do it.

From now on, she would endeavour to appease her mortal enemies, and none more so than Mary Tudor.

* * *

"Ah, Lady Rochford," Ambassador Chapuys greeted George Boleyn's wife in the royal gardens. "You asked to see me."

He had been more than a little surprised to hear of her desire to speak with him. He was clueless as to what this lady could possibly want from him, considering the fact that she was a member of the Concubine's family. Nevertheless, he had immediately sent his servant to her with a message to meet him in the gardens in the later afternoon, for it was uncommonly warm for this time of the year.

He kissed the hand she offered him with little enthusiasm, for he did not like her that much. She always seemed stiff and a tad malicious.

"Excellency," she replied in her cooing voice, a voice that was not necessarily unattractive, but had a bitter edge to it. "Shall we walk a bit?"

They exchanged a few pleasantries, things of no interest, until Chapuys mentioned randomly that he would soon have an audience with the Queen.

"Ah, my sister in law," the lady said calmly, a little smile tugging at her lips. It was no happy smile, Chapuys noticed. He always noticed such things. "She is prospering, whereas I… I... " Jane's voice trailed off, inviting him to pick up her chain of thoughts.

"She is prospering indeed," the Ambassador replied silkily. "As a member of the Boleyn family, you are familiar with her, I presume?"

"Not really," Jane said. "After all, I am not one of her ladies. She does not take much notice of me. I am only her brother's wife, you see." She looked at him now and there was venom in her eyes, venom too unmistakable to be missed, although carefully hidden beneath a layer of false politeness.

But Chapuys was not ambassador for nothing. He knew people, and he knew a determined woman when he saw one. He had dealt with his share of them over the years. But what was Lady Rochford really up to? He had a vague idea, but he needed to know more.

"And your husband is a powerful figure at court. I am sure you have much pleasure and joy in seeing your family in-law flourish at court. What was their motto again…?" He feigned ignorance.

Jane snorted. "_The most happy,"_ she said cynically. "And I am sure they are, now that _her _power is as great as it used to be before the King fell out of love with her."

It was now clear to Chapuys that Jane Rochford disliked the Queen, and quite obviously the rest of the Boleyn family, too. Why that should be, he did not know, but it did not really matter.

"You have sharp eyes, my lady," he flattered her. "Indeed it seems as if that accident turned the tides."

"That is true. But ebb and flow are ever changing." Her cold blue eyes looked at him. They had come to a halt before a great fountain.

Chapuys got her metaphor. "God help them then, should the tide ever carry them away. It would be a shame… they are such a great and prominent family."

"It would be a shame to drown with them," Lady Rochford stated boldly. "I would wish to reach dry land."

The Ambassador smiled. This was better than he had thought. She was definitely offering him her help in bringing down the Boleyns. And although as of yet he had no concrete plans at all, he was more than willing to accept her offer. Perhaps he would need her, and soon.

"My lady, I think we understand each other." When she nodded, he added more directly, "Perhaps, with God's help, we will be able to turn the tide of their ambitions… and the waters shall wash away the stench of their depravity."

"Count on me," she said with a smile that made his blood freeze. "Good day to you, Excellency."

He returned her curtsy with a deep bow, looking after her as she made her way back to the palace.

He was glad she had come to him. Somehow this meeting had renewed his vigour, his desire to put an end to the Boleyns' insatiable ambitions. They had to be put away.

Chapuys knew there were people who still shared his beliefs, people who hated the Concubine and her family with a vengeance. He now had Jane Rochford on his side, a woman who was close to the Boleyns, and therefore close to the Whore. There were the Seymours, with whom he would arrange a meeting soon in order to advise them of his plans. Other courtiers would join him in his quest, he was sure of that.

And, of course, there was the Lady Mary, the King's true daughter – unlike the Concubine's little bastard – who was surely as desirous as ever to bring down the one who had usurped her mother's crown.

The Ambassador smiled. This was only the beginning.


	14. The Princess and the Concubine

**Thank you all for your reviews and encouragement.**

**Here we go...**

* * *

**Chapter 12 : The Princess and the Concubine  
**

* * *

Considering the dislike that existed between Anne and the Imperial Ambassador, Cromwell had presumed it would be difficult to convince the Queen of the need to receive Chapuys in audience, but it turned out to be a lot easier than expected.

He had requested to speak to her in private and was summoned to her rooms soon after, where she had just finished dining with the King.

Henry, seemingly pleased to see his Secretary, welcomed him graciously and asked him to sit with them. For some time they conversed amiably about this and that until the King rose from his chair.

"I'll leave you to talk in private," he said. He took his wife's hand and kissed it. "I wish to see you after you've spoken with the Queen", he added, turning to Cromwell.

"Your Majesty," Thomas bowed low, and Anne inclined her head gracefully in her husband's direction. They waited until he had left the room.

"Master Secretary," the Queen began. "You asked to see me. What can I do for you?"

Her tone was even and kind enough, and Thomas was sure they were on good terms these days. Their was an unspoken promise between them, not to move against each other in this time of renewal and change that had begun with the King's accident and its aftermath. And yet he could not help being cautious around her, carefully calculating his every word. He knew the power she wielded, now that she was back in the King's good graces, and he would never underestimate her. He could not afford to.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I hope I may speak openly?" When she nodded, he continued, "Altough the King still favours an alliance with the French these days, I deem it necessary for us all not to antagonize the Emperor, in case the King should change his mind, or anything should occur that would make a French alliance seem inadvisable. You and I both have an interest in securing the King's love and making the right choices."

Anne raised her slanting brows. "You know my sentiment towards France. I would much prefer an alliance with Francis to one with the Emperor, who has never made a secret of the fact that he considers my marriage to the King to be null and void. However," she added, curbing the anger that always bubbled up when she thought of Charles V, "I know what you mean, considering the fact that we do not know what the future might bring. And yet I do not know how I should appease the Emperor, knowing that he hates me like a scorpion," she finished mockingly. Inwardly she thought of Mary, wondering what Cromwell would think of her plan to try to make peace with the girl.

Cromwell smiled diplomatically. "I understand. Indeed, it may be true that the Emperor does not have any love for you - but that means nothing. Alliances are not about love, as your Majesty well knows. They are matters of state, ever in flux, and things change. Therefore I would like to suggest, if I may be so bold, that you receive Ambassador Chapuys in your chambers in order to reassure him that there is no hatred between England - the King and yourself - and Spain. It might prove useful in the end."

Anne frowned at this. She eyed Cromwell suspiciously, wondering what he was up to. But there was no lie in his eyes, and she realized that what he said made sense. Even if she hated the Emperor, and the Emperor hated her, it would be wise not to repel him in any way. Although she was secure in the King's love, she was still regarded by many as the Great Whore, a usurper and a harlot, and she still needed all the help she could get.

Her sharp mind also perceived the possibility to include Chapuys in her plans to get in touch with Mary, as messenger or otherwise.

"I am willing to receive him," she said, smiling inwardly at Cromwell's relieved expression. She did not know what his true interest was in her meeting the Ambassador, and whether or not there was an ulterior motive behind it, but she planned to find out sooner or later.

"But there are two things I must consider," she continued. "Firstly, is he willing to come to me? You know as well as I do that he disapproves of me. And, secondly, will the King accept my interfering in this matter, should I indeed reach out to the Emperor in a gesture of goodwill?"

Cromwell inclined his head in a respectful manner, appreciating her shrewdness and intelligence. Here indeed was a woman with a spirit worthy of a crown.

He said, "I have the King's support in this matter. As he loves you above all, he is ever desirous to prove to all that you are his true wedded wife and most beloved Queen. He would therefore welcome your reaching out to the Emperor, just as you have ever endeavoured to be on good terms with the King of France."

Anne realized that he must have talked about this whole matter with Henry before he came to her. But if this was indeed the Henry's desire, then she would do everything in her power to fulfill his wishes. She was determined to be the wife he wanted her to be, to save herself from falling out of favor once more.

"If it be his Majesty's pleasure, then I am ready to obey." She stated demurely. "Please arrange for an audience with his Excellency. I am sure I will find the right words to make it clear to him that although I shall always be bound to France in love and friendship, I also wish to maintain a good relationship with Spain, if that be possible."

Cromwell nodded, satisfied with the outcome of the conversation. He was about to bring up another issue, when Anne spoke up again.

"There is something I've been meaning to discuss with you for weeks. I have made my mind up to do something I should have done a long time ago."

Thomas bent forward, intigued. "You've made your mind up in what, your Majesty?"

Anne lowered her voice. "It concerns the Lady Mary," she said slowly, and Cromwell had difficulties hiding his surprise, for this was the exact matter he had been meaning to talk about too.

"I am determined to speak with her, and, if I can, to secure her acceptance of my title, so that I may reconcile her with her father." She breathed deeply, as if it cost her much to say this. "I fear we have been letting things slide for too long."

Cromwell nodded, albeit confused. He had expected that she would be desirous to simply secure Mary's submission, but it seemed as if Anne was eager to approch the King's daughter on a more personal level.

"I wish to make my peace with her," Anne continued, "not only as a queen with her subject, but as the woman who is married to her father. I want to let bygones be bygones, not only to secure my own position, but for the love of God and the Christian spirit of mercy and forgiveness. I have made a promise to God and I intend to keep it."

She seemed to be deeply moved by some emotion he could not identify. _Promise? What promise?_ Thomas wondered._ What had she promised to God?_

Anyhow, if Anne succeeded in reconciling Mary with her father - which would be more than difficult - she would be able to strengthen her position as Queen immasurably. The people would rejoice to see Katherine of Aragon's daughter back in the King's good graces and would hail Anne as the negotiator of it all. Mary's faction too would approve of such a change, and might come to revoke their bad opinion of Anne.

And, most important of all, the King would hail her for her actions. He had no idea of Mary's existence, but would probably welcome his eldest daughter with open arms, if only Anne arranged everything with due care. Cromwell understood the urgency that seemed to be driving her, for they had indeed neglected the issue of Mary in all the excitement after the King's accident and the weeks of his recovery. No one had noticed anything so far because Mary had not been in the King's good graces for years, and nobody deemed it unnatural that he would not speak of her. But it was time to do something, or one day in the near future someone of Mary's faction would surely realize that something was amiss, and bring up Mary's name, which might set things in motion Anne wanted to avoid at all costs.

"I understand," he said evenly. "I'll do what I can to help you. I guess you will ask Chapuys to talk to her on your behalf?"

Anne nodded, glad that he understood her ideas so well. "I am planning to write a letter to the Lady and to ask Chapuys to give it to her. Then, in due time, I will pay her a visit at Hatfield, under the pretext of visiting my child." Elizabeth had returned to Hatfield a few days ago. Anne's plan was to tell Henry that she wished to see her child (which was true, of course), and then use that same visit to speak to Mary.

"A good plan." Cromwell nodded his approval. "Of course, none of this must ever reach the King's ear," he said more to himself than to her, but Anne immediately agreed, as if this thought troubled her as well.

"No, his Majesty must not know. If he learns the truth before I have achieved my goal, things might go ill. Therefore I bid you not to to allow Chapuys to get near the King's grace after I have spoken to him. No one must know of my desire to make peace with Mary before it is all settled and done."

"I don't think you have to worry about that. After he has accepted your letter, he will no doubt hasten to Hatfield to talk to Mary. And that is the weak spot of the plan. Even if the Lady should submit to you and accept you as Queen, how do we know it is not just a superficial gesture? How do we know Chapuys is not behind it, and that she will not turn against you?"

Anne laughed sharply. "I know. She hates me with all her heart, and perhaps she has reason to do so. And maybe this will be my downfall, for if she pretends to accept me and then turns against me behind my back, then God help me. She is a powerful enemy. Here at court she would be a terrible threat." Fear was visible in the depths of her blue eyes for a few seconds.

Rising from her chair and walking over to one of the grand windows, she sighed. "You don't understand, Mister Cromwell," she said, staring at the gardens outside. "Not completely." She laid a hand on her temple as she so often did when something troubled her. She knew it was foolish to lay bare before Cromwell her innermost thoughts, but, strange though it was, he was the only one she could turn to right now regarding the issue of Mary Tudor.

"There is more to it," she rambled on, and had she turned around she would have seen the barely hidden interest in his gaze. "I made a promise to God, and I must not betray Him who is Creator and Master of all things. I fear His retribution, should I not stick to what I have promised to do... to abjure hatred and vengeance. And I feel like this is a God-given opportunity to begin with it."

She turned around then, and, seeing the understanding in his eyes, she realized once more that he too was but mortal, with all the fears and insecurities that plagued any man or woman. And maybe he could see now that she had to approach Mary, that this was the will of God. That by doing so, Anne the Queen would get a chance to make up for the sins of the past.

But she also grew alert, fearful she had said too much. Cromwell seemed to sense this change in her, for he rose quickly, and, reassuring her that he would endeavour to help her and arrange everything with utmost care, he bowed low and left her to her thoughts.

* * *

_**The next day...**_

Jane Seymour let her eyes roam over the people gathered in the room with her, listening quietly to their animated conversation.

It was a strange assembly of different characters.

Her own father, so at least it seemed to Jane's untrained eyes, was in stark contrast to the other people present. He was a likeable man who only wanted what was best for his family. He had a goodly smiling countenance, and hardly ever spoke a harsh word to anyone. She had never thought of him as anything but a good-natured soul, for he had always been to her a gentle and loving father, cherishing and defending her even when her brother found fault with her demeanor.

Edward, calm and suave as usual, his voice ringing out pleasantly to her ears, was also a good man, she figured - in his own way. He did not have in his nature the inbred kindness their father possessed, could even be haughty and cold at times. She had no doubt of his ambitions, but he was still her brother, and she loved him.

Then there was the Lady Rochford, sitting elegantly in her chair across from Edward. To Jane, this lady was somewhat of an enigma, her thoughts and motivations not entirely clear to her. But she sensed a bitter disappointment in her, a smouldering hatred that was disturbing, bone-chilling even. And yet she felt pity for this woman, who was so obviously discontent with her situation, and she could relate to her desire to make a change.

But the most fascinating person of all who were present was the Ambassador. There was something about him that just drew you in. Wisdom and knowledge shone in his penetrating eyes that seemed to pierce into your very soul; his entire being radiated an aura of subtle astuteness. His impeccable manners and polite smile made him appear amiable enough, but even to someone as politically unaware as Jane it was clear that Chapuys was a shrewd and cunning man of considerable skill and influence.

He had just answered Edward's questions regarding Sectretary Cromwell, and dashed his hopes by making it clear to him that Cromwell had sided with the Queen once more. Edward was about to say more, when Sir John held up a hand to silence him.

"Now, Excellency," the head of the Seymour family said, "I beg you to tell us of your audience with her Majesty, which, if I'm informed correctly, took place but a few hours ago. What did she say to you?"

A silence fell.

Chapuys smiled slowly. "Ah well, that was peculiar indeed. Very interesting." Seeing how they hung on his lips, his smiled broadened. "In fact, I was rather surprised when Cromwell's messenger came to me with the Concubine's invitation. I was reluctant, of course, as to whether or not I should accept, but then I thought it would not do any harm. And my master, the Emperor, was eager for news of the Harlot and her position after the King's accident. So I went to her..."

_The bow he made as he stood before her was more hinted at than genuine, but she did not seem to notice. She did not offer him her hand to kiss, but inclined her head respectfully before she invited him to sit down in a chair across from her. Two of her ladies were present, but they had obviously been told not to pay much heed to the conversation. _

_The two of them sat in silence for a few seconds, eyeing each other cautiously. _

_Eustace missed nothing, from the purple colour of her dress, a deliberate reminder of her royal status, to the defiant look in her eyes and her folded hands, resting in her lap as if she needed to restrain them from clawing at him. Yes, she was as poised and haughty as ever, her devilish spirit shining through, but he also sensed that something was different about her demeanor, and he could not pinpoint what exactly it was. She seemed grave, sincere, and there was more courtesy in her eyes than he had ever seen. _

_He eyed her pert little mouth as she began to speak at last. "Excellency, I thank you for coming. I hope you find yourself in good health?" _

_They had never really spoken to each other before, and it was awkward to see her address him so directly, sitting just a couple of inches away from him. _

_"Thank you, Madam," he responded, deliberaty avoiding the addage "your Majesty". He did not accept her as Queen of England and never would. "I am well, and I humbly thank you for your invitation." These last words were so full of mockery that it was almost comical, and he was not surprised to see a small knowing smile on Anne's lips._

_"I'm very glad to hear it," she said in her deep voice which, despite the Ambassador's best efforts, sounded attractive to his ears. But he was on his guard, for he knew it to be the voice of an enchantress. _

_"And so is the King, I am sure." She continued. "He sets great store by your opinion." _

_Chapuys did not react to this obvious flattery. He said instead, "May I enquire after the King's health? How is he? I hear and see he is as vigorous as ever... a king reborn, one might say?" _

_The Concubine smiled generously. "He is indeed, and I am glad therefore. There is so much he wishes to achieve, so much he is planning to do yet, to the benefit of this blessed nation. And I shall endeavour to help him." _

_I can imagine that, Eustace thought wryly, but said out loud, daringly: "I hear his Majesty still favors an alliance with the French, and is even planning to propose to the King a marriage between the Dauphin and your daughter." _

_He watched with pleasure as an expression of anger flickered over her face for a split second at the mentioning of her daughter, who was referred to by everyone else as "Princess Elizabeth", but she curbed her emotions. _

_"Indeed it is so," she retorted. "His Majesty is ever desirous to appease France, so great a nation as it is." She seemed unable to bite back this small pun in his direction, as if to pay him back for what he'd just said, and her smile grew more confident as she watched him grimace. She continued more kindly, "And yet, Excellency, things are ever in motion, and I for one do not wish to offend anyone. Like his Majesty, I care only for England's best interests, and will act accordingly." _

_Chapuys, astonished, said: "Speak plainer, Madam, I beg you." _

_She opened her hands in a gesture of goodwill. "I am English, Excellency, and therefore I have a great love for all nations who wish to be on good terms with England, who is Mother to us all. You asked me to speak plainly, so I will." She eyed him gravely, and he thought he had never before seen such an honest expression on her face. "Often alliances fail, and new ones are made. It is therefore my wish, as is the King's, to assure those who still have an interest to side with England, that there is no old enmity between or us, nor any grudge or resentments." _

_This was a clear hint at the Holy Roman Empire and Spain, and Chapuys was aghast. She had made it clear that she was speaking in the King's name. He had never expected this._

_"I am sure the Emperor would be overjoyed to reforge the friendship between England and Spain, Madam," he said honestly. _

_The Concubine smiled again, and to his surprise he was almost drawn in by that crooked little smile. With all his strengh he fought against it. This was the usurper Anne Boleyn, The Great Wore! But her offer was tempting. She was basically reassuring him that, should the alliance with France fail for whatever reason, England would be willing to ally with Spain. The Emperor would be outraged to hear that this came from the lips of the Boleyn whore, but he would still be intrigued, Chapuys figured. _

_"Personally," Anne said, "I know that some say I hate Spain, and perhaps in the past I have not always done enough to refute this opinion. It is my desire to assure you, and your master through you, that I, the Queen of England, harbour no hatred in my heart for that country which I am sure is very beautiful." That was a fluffy ending to a highly political message, but none knew better to read between the lines than Chapuys. _

_She was making it clear that, in her and the King's opinion, she was the rightful Queen, but also that she was willing to forget the past, in which the Emperor had always deputed her as a whore. Eustace found all of this very intriguing, but he knew very well that the Emperor would never accept the Concubine, not if fundamental things were to remain unchanged, and first of all the treatment of the Princess Mary. _

_"I understand, Madam," he began carefully, "and can only say again that I am sure my master would be pleased to renew the ties between Spain and this kingdom. And yet," he added, seemingly wistful, "I fear there are obstacles there which can not be removed, Madam. After all, my master is also but a cousin who cares for his relatives." _

_Of course, the Concubine understood immediately that he was referring to the Princess, and Eustace half expected her to fly into a rage, but she did nothing of the sort. To his horror she smiled pleasantly, shrewdly, as if she had known he was going to say something of the kind. _

_"I had hoped we would be able to talk about that issue," she said. "And since we have so far been nothing but honest to each other," she added with a hint of irony, "I shall continue in this vein. Excellency, you must know I desire nothing more than to make up for the tribulations and misunderstandings of the past. I wish to reach out my hand to those who have wronged me, and if ever in my life I did offend them, then I am ready to atone." _

_He was as perplex as never before, for these were words he had never thought to hear from the Concubine's lips in a lifetime. She was willing to atone for her ill treatment of the Princess? This was unheard of. _

_"Madam, Jesus asks us to forgive everyone," he said lamely, quite unusual for him. _

_"Indeed," the Concubine agreed, and, turning slightly away from him, she looked at her principal lady and held out her hand. The woman, whom Eustace knew to be Anne Seville, walked over to her mistress, curtsied deeply, and handed her a letter. _

_Accepting it and waving her servant away, the Concubine held the letter in her hands, facing the Ambassador once more. _

_"This, Excellency, is a letter from me to the Lady Mary, the King's own daughter. In it, I have expressed the things I just told you, and more. I am giving it to you in the hope that you will deliver it to the Lady."_

_He accepted it with a nod, staring in wonder at the small bold hand of the Concubine that read "To the Lady Mary Tudor". He was dying to know what she had written, but he would not find out until the Princess opened the letter. _

_"And now, Excellency, I bid you good day, for I am to meet with his Majesty very soon." _

_She rose elegantly from her chair, the silver tiara on her head catching and reflecting the tender rays of sunshine breaking through the windows. Eustace looked at her, thinking for the hundreth time that had she not been so proud, had she not usurped the crown of Katherine D'Aragon, he would have praised her as a woman of great poise, for in intelligence, attire and tongue she excelled them all. _

_She offered him her hand to kiss. He faltered for a moment, unwilling to honor her thus, but decorum demanded it. He looked into her eyes, smouldering yet clear in their intensity, and such was their power that he surrendered, and before he knew how, he bent over her hand and kissed it lightly. Straightening himself, he expected to see a malicious smile on her lips, but instead she smiled benevolently. _

_"Excellency." _

_"Madam," he answered, and, without another word, turned around and left her chambers. He needed to get away from this sorceress before she bewitched him utterly. _

Edward Seymour raised his brows.

"A letter to the Lady Mary? What exactly does it say?" He looked as if he was about to tackle the Ambassador and search him for it.

Jane saw Chapuy's expression and thought he looked annoyed. It was true, Edward was being too rash. He certainly had no claim on a letter written by the Queen to the Lady Mary.

"I am sure," the Ambassador said calmly, "that in it the Concubine expresses the wish to atone for the wrongs she has done to the Princess, and the possibility of reconciling her with her father, the King. Whatelse is said in it I could not possibly know without opening the letter myself, my lord," he finished sardonically.

"But this is impossible!" John Seymour flared up. "The Queen hates the Lady Mary with a vengeance!"

Chapuys shrugged. "That may be so. I cannot believe that she has a true interest in atoning for her sins, for we all know her to be a worthless character. I am equally sure that she has no love for the Princess. But it does not matter. The fact is, Sir John, that she wishes to talk to her. I think she will urge her to do all the King has always wanted her to do, so that she may be reconciled with him and return to court."

"You mean to accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church of England and denounce her mother's marriage to his Majesty as unlawful, thus admitting her own illegitimacy," Lady Rochford threw in, speaking up for the first time.

"Exactly," Chapuys nodded. "And that is our chance." He looked at them all, and a sense of conspiracy grew on them.

"What do you intend to do?" Sir John asked.

"I will urge the Lady Mary to accept the Queen's offer," the Ambassador said, not heeding their outraged expressions. "It will break her heart to denounce her mother's marriage as null and void, God bless her. Nevertheless, I will try to persuade her to swear whatever the King commands, reminding her that she could sign the document and then secretly forswear her submission before witnesses."

Sir John shook his head animatedly, "But she is the rightful heir to the throne, and she is very loyal to her blessed mother's memory. She must not submit!"

"We all took the Oath, didn't we?" Edward threw in sardonically. "You, Father, as well as myself, and all others who were unwilling to lose their heads, have sworn an oath that Elizabeth is the King's only legitimate heir, and Anne Boleyn his rightful wife."

Sir John pressed his lips together. "That is true. But the Lady Mary is of far greater importance than we are, Edward. If she submits, it will weaken her claim to the throne immeasurably."

"And yet," Chapuys said, "if she wants to return to Court, there is no other way. If she was reconciled with her father, and pretended to befriend the Concubine, things would be set in motion that might benefit us all."

"In what way?" Jane dared to ask.

Chapuys looked kindly at her. "In many ways. Without a doubt, the Concubine means to strengthen her own position by reconciling Princess Mary with the King. She means to appease the Princess's faction and thereby erase their resistance, for as the negotiator of the reconciliaton, the Concubine would be praised by many."

"And if the Concubine thought herself safe and out of reach of her enemies, that would make her weak," Edward concluded, guessing Chapuys' thoughts. He inwardly admired the Ambassador's shrewd mind.

Lady Rochford nodded. "I understand. I presume you are going to visit her soon and deliver the Queen's letter?"

"That is what I intend to do, yes," Chapuys answered. "In fact, I am going tomorrow. The sooner the better."

"Do you really think the Lady Mary will play along? As far as I know, she hates and despises the Queen," said Sir John.

"I think she will," Chapuys answered. "After all, who could have greater interest in destroying the Concubine than her? If that witch is crushed, Mary will be restored to the succession."

"But what part do we play in all of it?" Jane dared to speak up again.

"My dear girl," her father turned to her, addressing her kindly, as if she were the only one who did not grasp Chapuy's plans immediately, "you must redouble your efforts in seducing the King. Before that accursed accident happened, everything was going well... I do not know what has changed, but it seems to me that the King is once more besotted with her Majesty."

"She has bewitched him once again," Edward agreed. "Jane, it is your duty to do everything in your power to make the King love you once more. You owe this to your family."

Something stirred in Jane's mind, a voice that urged her to protest, to revolt against the unfairness of their expectations. It was obvious to her that the King had no interest in her whatsoever, and she did not know how to change his mind. Furthermore, there was no real love for him in her heart, and she still clung to the hope that one day, she would be reconciled with the one she truly desired. Also, the teachings of Christianity forbade her to take advantage of another person and exploit someone else's misery, and she did not know if she had the strength and will to move against Anne Boleyn.

But she was a woman, and a woman had no say in such matters. "Bound to obey and serve" was the motto she had chosen long ago, and she knew it was her duty and responsibilty to be an obedient daughter and sister. Edward was right, she owed this to her family. All noble daughters were expected to play their part in advancing their families' fortunes.

And yet the nagging feeling remained...

"Jane!" Edward's voice pierced through her thoughts. "Are you listening?" He threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

"I am listening. I'll do what I can, Brother," Jane rebuffed him with all the courage she had.

"I hope so," said Edward. "We need to know why the King is so besotted with the Whore once more, and whether or not he truly loves her. And he _has_ to fall for you again. He simply has to. Do you no longer wish to be Queen instead of her?" he finished suggestively, as if offering a piece of cake to her.

_Does he not understand_, Jane thought, _that this is dangerous? Does he not realize how much there is at stake for me? Is he really so blind that he does not see that my true heart belongs to another? _

But she did not voice her objections, saying instead, "I can only say again, Brother, that I will do what I can to make myself pleasant to his Majesty."

"And you, my lady," Chapuys said, looking at Jane Rochford. "May I ask you to investigate the Boleyns and find out all you can about their plans? Surely they must know everything of the Concubine's wishes."

"I will," Lady Rochford assured him.

Jane was glad when her father and brother finally rose from their chairs and paid their respects to the Ambassador. A sense of unease still tormented her, and she wanted to be alone. She curtsied to Chapuys, and then quickly followed the others out of the room. As the door closed behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapuys exhaled too, as if glad to be rid of his guests. He was a cynical contemporary who did not easily acquire a liking for most people, and but for political reasons he would not normally have spent time with the likes of the Seymours. Sir John was likeable, but he did not have the shrewdness of a trained courtier - unlike his son, who was as sharp as a knife, but cold and haughty. Lady Jane, on the other hand, gave the impression of being modest and obedient, with no opinion of her own, but he sensed her carefully hidden intelligence. He had his reasons for supporting her family's wishes to put her on the throne. She was like a steel magnolia: sweetly feminine, winsome and submissive, but with an ambition as great as Anne Boleyn's. What she did lack, though, was a proper education, and she was not on a level with the sophisticated women the Ambassador usually dealt with. As for the Lady Rochford... One could find more cheer in a graveyard than in that sour expression of hers.

Nevertheless he was very pleased with this meeting. Things were now getting under way that would have far reaching consequences, for better or for worse. If all should fail, then the Concubine would most likely have their heads and rise to unknown heights of power.

But if they reached their goal...

Then the Lady Mary would be known by all once more as "Princess", the memory of Katherine of Aragon would be cherished, and England restored to the true faith. Anne Boleyn would fall, and with her the evil of the heretics, all that was sinful and vile, would come to an end.

If they succeeded, it would bring about a golden world.

* * *

_Lady Mary, _

_this is to advertise you of the great desire I have to amend the wrongs comitted on all sides in the past, and to offer you most graciously my hand both in forgiveness and friendship, in forgetting and atonement. I pray you, Lady, to heartily accept this gesture of goodwill toward your person, and likewise to forget all wrongs I may have done to you in the past. I crave nothing more than the dissolution of any ill feelings that have ever stood between us, for the sake of Christian charity and love._

_I would reconcile you with your father, and welcome you back to court, if you will only accept me as Queen. _

_But if for whatever reason you can still not find it in you to do so, I beg you with all my heart to reconsider, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of England and the tranquility of his Majesty's realm. _

_I attach a document permitting you to visit the burial place of your late mother, the dowager princess of Wales. Furthermore, a brooch which once belonged to her that came into the hands of the Crown upon her death, and was given to me. It is not part of the Jewels of the Queens of England, and therefore does not belong to me. I have no need of it, but I am sure you will have much joy and pleasure in receiving this token which is rightfully yours. _

_Very soon, I shall journey to Hatfield House to visit my daughter, and trust I will find you there, so we may speak.  
_

_With all my heart I hope you will consider the things I am asking of you, and pray we shall come to an understanding. _

_But if indeed this letter does not touch your heart at all, and I am right in thinking that, even after reading it, you still won't approve of me and my cause, my Lady, I ask you only to judge me kindly. _

_Written by the hand of her who trusts shortly to see you,  
_

_Anne the Queen _

Hands shaking as she clasped her mother's gold brooch, Mary put down Anne Boleyn's letter, completely shocked at what she'd just read. She was allowed to visit her mother's grave! Speechless, she looked up at Chapuys who had been standing nearby in a corner of the small room at Hatfield that Mary called her own. He looked as if he was guessing the content of the letter, and with a silent gesture she invited him to read it. While his eyes were busy scanning Anne's small, bold handwriting, Mary shook her head in disbelief, lost in thought.

When, finally, Chapuys had finished reading, no doubt surprised at the Concubine's courteous tone, Mary spoke up.

"I cannot believe it, Excellency. What on earth moved her to write this letter?" She asked incredulously, picturing Anne as she wrote the words that, had any other person written them, Mary would have described as nothing but polite, thoughtful and sincere. But this was a letter from the Concubine, her mortal enemy, usurper of the crown of Katherine of Aragon... Surely there must be malice behind it.

Chapuys looked at her with his usual respectful and grave expression. "Princess," he began, "I am afraid no Christian soul will ever know all of her motivations, God save us. But I am convinced that she wishes to strengthen her own position by reconciling you with your father, the king."

Mary raised her delicate brows. "She told me before, shortly after Elizabeth's birth, that she would reconcile me with my father, and welcome be back to court, if I accepted her as Queen." She gave a short, mirthless laugh, looking the Ambassador straight in the eye. "I told her I knew of no Queen but my mother... and to that I hold."

She raised her chin in defiance, and in her eyes Chapuys saw in all clarity the deep hatred for Anne Boleyn she had nurtured for so many years. And she had every reason to do so, for she had lost so much at the hands of the Concubine. Still, it was his desire to urge her to accept the harlot's offer, so that they may move against her and destroy her for good.

"I know, Princess," he said, nodding his agreement. "She usurped your mother's crown and bewitched his Majesty. Nevertheless, you can not let this letter go unnoticed. It would anger her, and most likely your father, too. After all, she grants you to visit your mother's grave, and sends you that brooch in a gesture of goodwill."

Mary twisted the brooch in her hand and smiled wistfully. "Yes, she has granted me this favor... and if it were anyone but her, Excellency, I would be grateful. More than grateful. Indeed, if she were another, perhaps I would find it in me to forgive and forget the harm she has caused me, and accept her as the true and rightful queen. But she's the Boleyn whore, and I hate her." Her eyes glistened fiercely.

She looked up at her old friend and confidant. "Don't you hate her? Or has she bewitched you, too?" She ended cynically, reminding herself that Anne had personally presented the Ambassador with the letter.

Chapuys shook his head. "No, Princess. She has not. And believe me that I am on your side and understand your concerns. I do not support the Concubine."

Mary cast her eyes down. "I know, Excellency. Please forgive me. I know you care for me and my matters, perhaps more so than anyone else in this country. But, it just seems so strange to me that she would write so politely to me, asking me to judge her kindly and to pardon her. There must be some ulterior motive behind it. Or do you really think she wishes to make peace with me in order to save her soul?"

Chapuys frowned as if pondering her question. "When she gave me the letter she seemed genuinely sincere, assuring me that she was desirous to atone for what she did to you. But she is not to be trusted." He unwillingly recalled the Concubine's serene expression as she told him of her desire to appease Mary. He'd felt the lure of her eyes then, the power they wielded, almost manipulating him into believing her that she was serious about this entire affair. But that could not be. She was the Great Whore... She was no good.

Mary nodded in agreement. "But what exactly is her purpose? She hates me! What would she gain from reconciling me with the King?"

"As I said," Chapuys answered, "I presume she wants to strengthen her claim to the throne. As the initiator of a reconciliation, all would hail her; she knows that. She thinks it would pacify you, and us, your supporters, who have always been against her."

"And you don't think it would pacify us?" Mary asked pointedly.

"No, Princess. At least, not if we take this chance to destroy her once and for always. That is, not if you are still willing to destroy her and all her faction."

Mary thought about this for a moment.

Two things stood to the fore. One the one hand, she knew that she hated Anne Boleyn with all that was in her, and would do anything to revenger her mother, Queen Katherine. And yet, Mary, being a girl whom emotion deeply stirred, could not deny that the Harlot's letter had affected her, even if only a little. Anne's words rang with sincerity, honesty, even regret. _"I ask you only to judge me kindly..." _God wanted his children to forgive everyone, and, surely, if Mary accepted the Harlot's offer, she would be reconciled with her father, whom she loved and missed...

But, if she did so, she would disgrace the memory of her sainted mother, and she could not do that. With an effort, Mary pulled herself together. What was going on with her? She could not let the Concubine's fake regret win her over! She must be strong.

Looking at Chapuys, she nodded. "I am still willing to do so. How could I not be? She's the one who destroyed my mother's life. And mine," she added sourly. "But, even if I returned to court, would we have the power to harm her? Did you not tell me two weeks ago, when you last came here, that the King was besotted with her, that she was more powerful than ever?"

"It is true," Chapuys agreed, "she is very powerful. I do not know what happened, but the King loves her as if he had never fallen out with her, as if he had never been in love with Mistress Seymour. And no matter what, the Concubine is never to be underestimated."

"I don't doubt it," Mary said, grudgingly admitting that, for all her flaws, Anne was indeed a power to be reckoned with.

"And yet," the Ambassador continued, "her faith in her abilites, her belief that she's secure in the king's love, may also proof fatal. Perhaps she overestimates her power, her influence. And perhaps, which is my greatest hope, she overestimates the King's love. Princess, something must have happend after his Majesty's accident that changed the King's mind about the Concubine. And I am determined to find out what it was."

"How? And what else are you planning to do?" Mary threw in, intrigued.

"You have many friends at court, Princess Mary. I have already spoken to the Seymours, and they are still more than willing to help us. They will do anything in their power to rekindle his Majesty's affection for Jane, and to undermine the Concubine. Also, the Lady Rochford, a member of the Boleyn family itself, is on our side. I asked her to find out as much as she can about the accident and the events surrounding it. There must be more to it. And I, for my part, will continue to endeavour to find allies, and instruct them of my plans to bring down the Concubine."

Mary, weighed his words carefully. "So you want me to accept her offer, to accept her as Queen?"

"Yes, Princess. I know you hate her, and that you could never see her as the true Queen. And of course she is not. But think of the advantages your acceptance of her title would bring you. Reconiliation with your father, lodgings at court. Powerful friends, and the possibility to destroy the Concubine, one way or another."

"But is that not hypocrisy?" Mary retorted sharply. "To sign all the documents and accept that harlot as my mistress, thus besmirching the memory of my mother? And what would the Emperor think of it?"

"The Emperor hates the Concubine as we do," Chapuys said calmly, "and if indeed your formal acceptance of her title would eventually lead to her downfall, I am sure he would approve. And as for your mother, she above all people would want you to be happy. Your mother is gone, but you have a father who, I am sure, still loves and cares for you."

Mary saw him before her mind's eye, her boisterous and formidable father, whom she feared almost as much as she loved him. Yes, it would be nice to see him again, to find comfort in his strong arms. He was the only parent she had left. It would be heavenly to live at court once more, to leave Hatfield and the duty of serving Elizabeth behind...

But this could only be achieved by accepting the accursed Concubine, the woman her own mother had rightfully referred to as the 'scandal of Christendom'.

She needed to think about this alone, no matter how much she appreciated the Ambassador's counsel.

"I need some time to think this over," she said out loud.

"But, are you willing to at least meet the Concubine? She will press for a meeting," Chapuys commented.

Mary nodded. "I am ready to talk to her. I'm sure that by the time she comes here, I will have made up my mind."

"Very well, Princess. I am sure you are desirous to visit your mother's resting place at Peterborough Cathedral as soon as possible?"

"Yes, I'll go tomorrow." She had been deprived of the right to communicate with her mother after Anne Boleyn's marriage to the King, and after her death had not been allowed to mourn her properly. The King, no doubt under Anne's influence, had even prevented her from attending the funeral. Oh, how she longed to be where her mother lay, to fall to her knees beside her grave and weep the tears of sorrow and grief she should have wept that day they laid the Queen to rest!

"I just hope the Lady Bryan will let me go," she mused.

"She has no say in the matter. But, if it pleases you, I will tell her of the Concubine's letter, and inform her that you are allowed to go," Chapuys offered, and once more Mary felt gratitude surge through her.

"Thank you, Excellency. For everything," she stated simply, hoping that her words would convey to him just how much she appreciated his loyalty and friendship.

"Always, my Princess," he said, bowing low before her.

She escorted the Ambassador out of her room and looked after him for a moment as he walked away to find Lady Bryan.

Eventually, she turned away and locked herself in her chamber. Gazing out of the small window at the blue sky above, she pondered over an endless stream of questions.

What was going to happen? How should she decide?

Should she accept Anne's offer or not?

Sighing, she turned away and sat down on her bed. She had a feeling that this decision would make a great impact on her life, that it would change her future, for better or for worse. The consequences of her choice would be far-reaching.

And if she made the wrong decision, she would never forgive herself.


	15. Anne the Queen

**Chapter 13: Anne the Queen**

* * *

"I have important news," Chapuys said in a hushed voice, pulling John Seymour into a corner of the great hall at Greenwich. "The Princess Mary has made up her mind."

"In what?" Seymour whispered.

_Idiot,_ Chapuys thought, _don't you know anything? _

He said instead, "A letter from her was delivered to me earlier today. She has decided to submit to her father's will and acknowledge her own illegitimacy. I hear that the Concubine, as I predicted, is even now on her way to Hatfield House in order to find out whether or not Mary will accept her as Queen."

"What does all this mean?" Seymour asked incredulously.

"It means, my friend," Chapuys replied with fake impatience, "that our plot is gathering pace. If Mary submits, the Concubine will invite her to Greenwich and reconcile her with her father. It is now of utmost importance that your daughter catches the eye of the King once more, Sir John. With the Princess here at Court, and the King infatuated with Lady Jane, we will have the chance to destroy the usurper Queen once and for always."

He clapped the man on the back, and John Seymour hurried off to talk to his children.

The Ambassador, suddenly aware of a commotion at the other end of the great hall, composed his features and joined a group of dignitaries standing a few feet away from him.

They bowed low as his Majesty sauntered into the hall, laughing boisterously at something the Duke of Suffolk had said.

Chapuys frowned, watching as the King, accompanied by the Duke and a few other members of the privy council, made his way across the hall, saluting his courtiers and joking with the ladies.

"Excellency," Henry greeted the Ambassador in passing, the typical lopsided smile on his lips.

"Your Majesty."

The group soon turned a corner and disappeared in one of the palace's corridors. Chapuys, lost in thought, gazed into space for quite a while, paying no mind to the courtiers around him.

It had begun.

Soon the Princess would return to court, and her father, who had always been fond of her, would surely welcome her with open arms. Then, with the help of the Lady Rochford, who would hopefully uncover some damaging information about the Boleyns, and the lure of Jane Seymour's flesh, the time would come for them to crush the ambition of the Concubine.

The board was set, the pieces were moving.

* * *

Anne stroked Elizabeth's fine hair one last time, pressed a kiss to her beloved child's brow and watched with tender eyes as one of the maids escorted the Princess out of the parlour.

"Lady Bryan," she turned to the governess, "you may leave now. Please send in the Lady Mary, for I greatly desire to speak with her in private. My ladies shall go with you, and only Lady Seville may come in when I call for her."

"Your Majesty," the Lady said respectfully, motioning to the other women to follow her into one of the adjoining rooms.

When they were gone, Anne took a deep breath and straightened her back. She knew she must be on her guard around Mary, never exposing any weakness, but, at the same time, she wished to be civil towards the young lady. For once in her life she wanted to be the queen she was supposed to be, gracious but aloof.

Finally, the Mary appeared in the doorway.

Anne observed her curiously, missing nothing. The girl had a lot of Henry's smooth attractiveness, with her slender body, clean-cut features and a head of beautiful chestnut hair. Even so, there was no denying that this was the true heir of Katherine of Aragon, for she carried herself with such dignity and poise that one was instantly reminded of the late Princess Dowager.

„Lady Mary," Anne greeted her politely, albeit a bit warily, trying to block out the memory of their last encounter, when the girl had told her in a most unceremonious manner that she knew of no Queen but her mother.

Mary curtsied, her expression serious. "Madam."

Anne pointed to two heavy chairs that stood beside the open fireplace. "Please, sit with me."

She settled gingerly in one of the chairs, Mary following suit.

Sitting in silence they looked at each other for a moment, as if to see whether the other had changed since their last meeting three years ago.

Mary, for her part, could not help noticing the harlot's elegant attire and the healthy glow of her skin. She was certainly flourishing like a green bay tree. Slim, posh and handsome in an alluring kind of way, she had lost nothing of her infamous appeal. Mary grudgingly had to admit that Anne was a beautiful woman. There was something deep and dangerous in her, something unique that must be fascinating to the male sex, especially to a man as sensual and vivacious as the King.

It was obvious that she was trying hard to be civil, curbing her emotions and smiling obligingly, but the look in her eyes betrayed her suspicion. Also, she seemed to be a little nervous, for her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and her dark lashes fluttering like a butterfly's wings. Mary delighted in the thought that she had the power to make the Concubine uneasy.

While Mary was thinking this, Anne's eyes narrowed slightly. She did not approve of the knowing smile on the girl's lips, the proud lift of her head, but she curbed her irritation as best she could. She was determined to be debonair and composed in her conduct and to carry on a normal conversation with the young woman. Whatever the cost, she had to appease the King's eldest daughter, and letting her fiery temper get the best of her would not be helpful at all.

"Lady Mary," she said at last, "I am pleased to see you, and hope you are in good health?"

She knew that the girl had often been ill in the past few years, a fact that had contributed greatly to her own satisfaction. She remembered with shame how she had prayed for Mary's demise, even going so far as to tell Henry that while Mary was alive, she was unable to give him a son.

"I am well, thank you, Madam," Mary answered curtly, still irritated by Anne's close proximity. She just could not bring herself to like and trust this woman, no matter how courteous her letter had been or how charming she was. Nevertheless, she knew she must restrain herself. She had to make the harlot believe that she was willing to submit to her in every way, that she was more than ready to heal the breach between them.

She forced a bland smile to her lips. "May I enquire after his Majesty's health? I – I hope he has recovered from his accident?"

For a brief moment there was raw emotion in the girl's eyes, and Anne was strangely touched. She had no inclination to empathise with Mary, of all people, but she could not help but acknowledge that the child had not seen her father for three miserable years.

"The King is very well," she said kindly. "You have no need to worry. His Majesty has a leg wound that troubles him occasionally but apart from that, he is thriving. Indeed, some say that he is a king reborn. He is the most gracious prince in all the world, and his bounty is infinite."

Mary grimaced, as if to imply that she was excluded from the King's newfound magnanimity.

Anne did not miss her sullen expression and, taking a deep breath, braced herself to address the topic that was on both their minds.

"My lady, let me speak plainly. You know why I am here?"

Mary nodded tentatively. _We've come to it at last. _

Anne went on, "I am here in the hope that you have made up your mind to accept me as Queen of England." _There, I've said it,_ she thought. "As I told you three years ago, I am here in kindness. I would reconcile you with his Majesty and receive you with the honour due to a king's daughter, however illegitimate," she added persistently, "if you will only acknowledge me as Queen."

When Mary did not answer immediately, she hastened to add, "As I expressed in my letter to you, I am well aware of the wrongs I have done to you in the past. But I tell you now, I am more than willing to make amends. I admit to you that I have never endeavoured to be a stepmother to you, or at least to befriend you. For this sin I will atone, as for so many others."

Stunned, Mary opened her mouth to say something in return, but no words came forth. It was one thing to read such words in a letter, but to hear them from the lips of Anne Boleyn, the scandal of Christendom, was an entirely different thing. There was so much sincerity in her words that Mary was almost inclined to believe her.

"Madam, I am grateful," was all she came up with.

Anne smiled, surprised at herself for having said so much. She had not meant to humble herself before Mary, to reveal her inner thoughts, but it seemed to be working. In any case, it was all true. She had made a promise to God and herself and she intended not to break it. For the old days were gone.

"It would give me a great deal of pleasure to see you reconciled with your father, my lady," she said. "I'm not heartless, and I hope that one day you will see it."

Before Mary could answer, Anne called for her lady-in-waiting, Nan Saville. The lady came into the room, approached the chairs and curtsied deeply. She handed her mistress a sealed document. Anne thanked her and bid her to leave them alone.

"I have here," she said, handing the paper to Mary, "a document set up by my lord Secretary Cromwell. As you know, his Majesty commands you to denounce papal authority and accept him as Supreme Head of the Church of England. Furthermore, he demands that you acknowledge your mother's marriage to him to be null and void, thus accepting your own illegitimacy. And lastly, you must accept me as the rightful Queen of England and the Princess Elizabeth, my daughter, as heir presumptive to the throne."

She delivered this speech with an air of pride, doubting not a single element of its content. Katherine of Aragon's marriage to the King was unlawful and therefore Mary was a bastard. Anne was willing to appease her in every way, to make up for past misdeeds and to welcome her back to court, but the girl must realize that she was no longer a Princess of England. Elizabeth was Henry's only legitimate daughter, and she, Anne the Queen, was his true wedded wife.

At the same time, she knew she was treading on thin ice, for the King, as of yet, was oblivious to Mary's existence, and Mary, on the other hand, had no idea that her father knew nothing of this whole scheme. She had no clue that Henry had lost his memory.

But it did not really matter, for Henry was still Supreme Head of the Church, and he believed with all his heart in the validity of his marriage to his wife, Anne. Before his accident, he had continuously pressured Mary to yield to his will and submit to him in this matter, and she had stubbornly refused. Now, Anne assumed, as soon as he learned of her existence, he would be desirous to get to know his daughter and reconcile with her - but still, it would not be possible unless she signed the document. Henry, even if he came to love his eldest as he had before his separation from Katherine of Aragon, would have no choice but to urge her once more to accept her illegitimacy and Anne's status as the true Queen.

"I know this is harsh," Anne continued, "but do not think that I – "

"Madam," Mary interrupted her boldly, her features composed, "I have decided to submit to my father's will – in every way." Inside, her heart was breaking. She prayed to God that He would forgive her, and beseeched her blessed mother in Heaven to pardon her for yielding to her father's commands. But she had no choice. If she wanted to destroy Anne Boleyn, she had to do this.

Anne looked stunned. "Then you will sign the document?"

"Yes - your Majesty." This was the final straw. She had openly besmirched the memory of her mother by addressing this harlot with the title that belonged to none but Katherine of Aragon. Mary closed her lids involuntarily, preparing herself to see the triumphant sparkle in Anne's eyes as soon as she opened them again.

And indeed, there was a glimmer in the harlot's aquamarine orbs, a small flame of victory she could not quench. One corner of her pert mouth went slightly upwards, forming a smug little smile. She seemed satisfied with herself, but Mary could not deny that there was also something else – genuine relief, elation.

"I am glad," Anne said honestly. "And trust me, now that you have decided to be reasonable, I will do everything in my power to keep you always in the King's good and kind graces."

Mary smiled through gritted teeth, holding back tears. She had sold her soul, but if her betrayal would contribute to the destruction of this harlot, then the sacrifice was worth it.

* * *

Half an hour later, when it was time for her to sign, Mary had managed to compose herself completely. Her sober face betrayed absolutely nothing of her inner turmoil.

They had moved to the great hall and Anne had called in witnesses, namely her ladies-in-waiting and the Lady Bryan. Hesitantly, Mary sat down at the long table, her rigid back never touching the chair.

Anne laid the paper before her with an encouraging smile.

"Here, Lady Mary," she said ceremoniously, "is the document set up by my lord Secretary Cromwell, minister to his sovereign Majesty."

Mary broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Bowing her head, she pretended to read through what it said, in reality merely scanning the letters with her eyes. If she read the whole thing, she was not sure she would be able to keep up appearances.

She could not help reading the last paragraph, though, and it took all her willpower not to burst into tears.

_I do freely, frankly and for the discharge of my duty towards God, the king's highness and his laws, without other respect, recognize and acknowledge that the marriage formerly had between his majesty and my mother, the late princess dowager, was by God's law and man's law incestuous and unlawful. _

She could feel Anne's eyes boring into her skin, and before she could change her mind she raised the quill, dipped it in the inkpot, and added her name to the blasted document.

_As long as I life,_ she thought, _I will never forgive myself. _

Her reverie was interrupted by Anne's purring voice. "Well done, my lady," the harlot said, handing the document to Nan Saville, who carefully stored it in a leather folder.

She motioned Mary to rise, and then turned to the Lady Bryan.

"Lady Bryan, now that the Lady Mary has submitted to his Majesty's will, she is to be treated with all the respect due to a king's daughter. Although she will remain in the service of my daughter for the time being, it is my desire that she receive a larger and more comfortable room, a set of new clothes at my expense, and everything else she may desire. Henceforth, she is allowed to visit her mother's grave at any time and may receive visitors here at Hatfield - in consultation with you." She added pointedly, knowing that the dutiful governess would not permit Mary to consult with potential enemies of the Crown or those who openly defied Anne's claim to the throne.

Lady Bryan could only nod, a little astonished at her Majesty's generosity, but glad that the King's eldest daughter was to be treated more kindly.

"Lady Mary," Anne turned her attention back to the young woman, "I cannot stay longer. His Majesty has to be made aware of your submission, and my duties as Queen call me back to court. Rest assured that I will recommend you to your father, and if everything goes well, I will invite you to Greenwich very soon. If it be his Majesty's pleasure, lodgings shall then be prepared for you and you shall be presented before the King and his court with all due honour."

Mary could not deny that the prospect sounded promising, but she was indignant at the idea of having to thank the Concubine as the arranger of it all. She hated having to act cordially in the presence of this woman, who was so prone to self-praise and arrogance that she considered her intervention on Mary's behalf to be the greatest of achievements, when in fact it was something she should have done years ago.

But, no matter how much she despised hypocrisy, she had to suppress her anger. Anne must never know that her true intention was to destroy her.

"Thank you, your Majesty," she said suavely, "I pray that his Majesty will find it in his heart to forgive me. I would be more than glad to return to court and see him."

"I'm sure he will forgive you, my Lady," Anne replied. "Now I must take my leave. Lady Bryan," she turned once more to the governess, "make haste to arrange for a new room for my Lady Mary, and send for the tailors, so that they may start making her new wardrobe. I shall leave you the means to pay them."

"Your Majesty is more than generous." The woman curtsied deeply to the Queen, gave Mary a respectful nod, and left the room to go about her business.

Anne now ordered her ladies to prepare everything for their immediate departure, and they hurried off to obey her commands.

"Now, Lady Mary, I bid you good day, and trust we shall see each other soon."

Mary curtsied but Anne reached out, took her right hand, and offered the girl her cheek to kiss, as queens sometimes did with ladies of high rank.

Mary hesitated, taking in the harlot's smooth skin and pursed lips. Was she really going to kiss goodbye the destroyer of Katherine of Aragon? Must she risk her immortal soul only to please the whore of an earthly king? But decorum demanded it, convention demanded it, and Anne had been amiable enough, granting her a more spacious room and more personal freedom, and assuring her that she would intercede with the King on her behalf.

And so she pulled herself together, leaned forward and kissed her mortal enemy.

* * *

"She has submitted!" Thomas Boleyn exclaimed, looking intently at his daughter. "Is it true?"

"Yes, Father," Anne replied, proud of her success. She had returned from Hatfield an hour ago and, after a short meeting with her husband, summoned her family to her rooms.

"This is excellent news," the Earl went on. "I admit I was sceptical at first. But now..." He put a hand on her cheek, as he often did when he was pleased with her. "Sweet Anne..." He smiled his signature smile. "Finally, the intransigent bastard accepts you as Queen."

Anne frowned, disapproving of his offensive tone. "Yes, she has accepted me - or so it seems. And therefore I will endeavour to be kind to her."

George, who had not uttered a single word so far, rose from his chair. "Anne, are you ill?" He joked, but his sister's glare silenced him.

Thomas Boleyn's expression changed drastically. "You cannot be serious. Now that her will is broken, you want to be _kind_ to her?" He spat the word like a curse. "We have no reason to treat her kindly."

"I have my reasons, Father," Anne said calmly. "And you are mistaken if you think her will is broken. She is her mother's daughter. In any case, I have promised to appease her and to that I hold."

"If you do that, the bastard will be too close to the Crown!" Boleyn insisted.

"But _I_ am closest to the Crown!" Anne retorted, rising from her chair. "I am the King's wife!"

Thomas Boleyn's mouth twitched. "And I've told you before that you should remember how you got there!"

Anne pursed her lips in defiance. _How dare he? _"And _I _have told _you_ before that I know how I got there!"

"Now, don't – " George threw in but Anne silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"No, George. I know how I got there, and you two have to understand that if I want to stay there, I have to appease my enemies! Don't you see? I must do this. There is no other way."

Thomas Boleyn was still fuming but he decided to let the topic go. "You must do as you will, your Majesty," he drawled sardonically. "If you want to make peace with our mortal enemies, go ahead. But perhaps you should also endeavour to think of _our_ fortunes."

"How can you say that to me? I am always trying to act to the advantage of the Boleyns!"

"Then perhaps you could make an effort to fall pregnant once more," her father said acidly.

Anne scoffed. "I will be pregnant, Father. I will still deliver the King a son. And then, when I have given him his great desire, I pray our fortunes will be made," she finished sourly.

"I sincerely hope so," Thomas Boleyn sneered. Fed up with his daughter's stubborn will, he bowed low, too low, as if to make a show of his mockery, and left the room with a thunderous expression on his face.

The door fell shut with a bang, making Anne jump.

George walked over to her and patted his sister's shoulder affectionately. "He will calm down, don't worry."

Anne nodded, stroking his hand. "I know. But he's right, isn't he? I must produce a son. One day, Henry will remember that he needs a male heir..." She sighed. "That's another reason why I want to recommend myself to my enemies, George. I need a basis. I never want to be the unfortunate Queen again, stranded, with nothing to hold on to."

George smiled tenderly. "I understand. But remember, whatever happens, you will always have _me_ to hold on to, sister."

He gathered her in his arms and Anne felt comforted. How she loved him.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I know that everything's going to be alright. You're headed in the right direction. You will have a son, Anne. And then… there will be no Queen to equal you."

Safe in her brother's warm embrace, Anne smiled wryly.

She knew that the next months would determine the future of her life.

There was, of course, the possibility that all their hopes would be shattered, and she and her family would fall into darkness, never to rise again. If they failed, Anne knew that she would most likely pay the ultimate price. She had had this kind of premonition before – in her dreams she had seen herself, lost, terrified, Mary setting fire to her cage. If everything went wrong, she would die.

But there was still hope. She was beloved of the King, she was doing her best to pacify those who stood against her, and her trust in God was greater than it had ever been.

If she acted with powerful determination, she could achieve everything she desired. With the support of her family and her own strong will, she could break the Seymours. She could make Mary beholden to her, this way or the other. She could still give Henry a son, a son to be the living image of his father.

If all went well, she would find a way to become the woman she had always wanted to be: an example of female self-fulfilment, a devout champion of the Church, a mistress of goodness, honour and virtue.

Anne wanted people to remember her – not as the 'goggle-eyed whore', the Concubine, usurper of Katherine of Aragon's crown, but as one who took fate into her own hands and set a standard for others to follow.

She wanted legend to tell of a remarkable lady, a woman who astonished the world: Anne the Mother, Anne the Reformer, Anne the Queen.

* * *

_**Author's note: When I first started writing this story, I had planned to focus mainly on Henry's point of view. Anyway, as writing progressed it became obvious that the story was getting more and more Anne-centric. I know I've been focusing on her a lot in the last few chapters but I promise that Henry will have one of the following chapters almost completely to himself.  
**_

**_I just find it so rewarding to accompany Anne on her quest to become the Queen she wants to be; she's really growing into herself, don't you think? :) So keep reading! As always, reviews are appreciated. They really inspire me and help me evaluate my work. Thanks!_  
**


	16. Secrets of the heart

**Chapter 14: Secrets of the heart  
**

* * *

_**Whitehall Palace, London, late March 1536**_

* * *

_"We are, by the sufferance of God, King of England. Henry VIII." _

With a sigh, Henry put down his quill and looked down at the ornate lines of his own handwriting.

Strange, he mused, that one signature should carry so much weight. It consisted of only five letters and one Roman numeral, and yet it could determine the fate of millions, declare war and bring peace, grant absolution and pass sentence, save life and take it away.

In the two months since his accident, he had signed many important documents: petitions, applications, bills, letters - even death warrants. One should think he was used to it by now; and indeed, the task itself was easily performed. But never, never, did he fail to pause for a moment before he affixed his signature, reminding himself of the impact his name on a piece of paper could make. It was a symbol in black and white, a constant reminder of the enormous power he wielded as King of England.

With a nod, Henry handed the document on to Cromwell, who had been waiting patiently, albeit with inward trepidation, for his master to sign it.

It concerned the dissolution of a famous monastery in the realm of Suffolk. The resident monks, in an act of foolish bravery, had cried out against Cromwell's so-called injustice and pleaded with the king to save the "consecrated soil" of their cloister, beseeching him not to rob them of their home and spiritual haven. Cromwell, of course, had only smiled mildly upon first reading this venerable plea in the relative privacy of his own office.

They should have known that he, of all people, would have no sympathy for a group of Catholic monks, however God-fearing they may be. They should have known better than to mess with him, the driving force behind the Dissolution of the Monasteries, a measure more dear to his heart than his own renown. He had sacrificed his reputation, ultimately, in order to put an end to the dark days of ignorance and superstition, to free the land of false doctrine and the evils of monasticism, and he would not let a group of obstinate friars get in his way. "Messenger of Satan" people called him, and although any other Christian man may have shuddered at such a sobriquet, the Secretary did not. It only strengthened his resolve to press ahead with the destruction of the Catholic Church and the promotion of the Advent of Reform.

So far, all his plans had come to fruition. With the help of Sir Richard Rich, a man who shared his fierce ambition and religious beliefs, he had managed to close down some of the most important monasteries in England. By doing so, they had not only uncovered greed, sloth and deception among the so-called servants of God, but also contributed massive sums to his Majesty's treasury. A great deal of the fortune the monasteries had amassed over the years, money dubiously obtained from well-meaning believers, was already in possession of the Crown, and Cromwell and Rich were determined to strip the rest of the religious houses of their assets as well.

In Cromwell's mind, religious zeal did not stand in contrast with sober, uncompromising business. He was aware of the criticism many people, even Queen Anne, had voiced, suggesting that he was using the dissolution of the cloisters on the grounds of the monks' depravity as a pretext in order to make money. He could not deny that there was some truth in this allegation. It was a lucky coincidence and a welcome bonus indeed that his venture to break Catholicism in this kingdom was proving so highly beneficial to the king's treasury. And yet, his true intention, his great matter, was to purge the land of the false doctrine of the Catholic Church and crush the self-righteous conduct of her agents. To that end, he was willing to put up with the severe hatred of the people of England - in fact, he was willing to sacrifice his immortal soul.

Even knowing that what he was doing was right and good, that there was only one true religion and that he must support this holy Reformation to the best of his abilities, he sometimes wondered what God would make of his actions. _Does the end always justify the means?_ Sometimes, when he was alone and unobserved, he would speak a heartfelt prayer, begging the Lord to look mercifully upon his infirmities and judge him kindly. He knew he could be ruthless, cold and rigorous, but he was convinced that he was not an evil man. He could only hope that the Almighty in His wisdom would understand that no matter what he did, his aim to promote the Reformation was always at the forefront of his thinking.

"... know that this is not true. Our only concern, as Head of the Church of England, is the spiritual health of our beloved subjects and the tranquillity of this realm."

Henry waited patiently for a reply. When he did not receive one after a minute or so, he could not help but smile. "Mister Secretary? Are you listening to me?"

His master's slightly amused voice tore Cromwell out of his reverie.

"Forgive me, Majesty," he said quickly, annoyed at himself for woolgathering in the king's presence. It was not like him to be innatentive, and of course the King's eyes missed nothing. It was one of the things which had first fascinated him about Henry upon his debut at court and that had not changed after the accident: the uncanny ability to discern the feelings of those he dealt with, born out of a true interest in what stirred other people's hearts. It was a feature one would not necessarily look for in a monarch, one that often prompted him to act rashly and unthinkingly, but it was also one of Henry's greatest assets. It gave him the inestimable power to inspire loyalty.

The Secretary expected a rebuff for his moment of abstraction, but his Majesty surprised him once more, as he did so often these days. The old Henry, Cromwell was sure, would have offered one of those cool smiles that did not reach his eyes and sent him away with an annoyed wave of his beringed hand. The new Henry had obviously decided to simply ignore his Secretary's blackout and repeat his remark.

"I was just saying that I have but recently learned of some complaints some people have made in relation to the Dissolution. They claim that it is the financial aspect alone that interests me." His gaze seemed to intensify as he looked at his minister.

"They are wrong." he added simply, his voice carrying conviction. Here was another thing that had not changed: his firm belief in himself, his natural arrogance. And if the whole world condemned him as a renegade, monster and heretic, he would always think of himself as a prince of honour and virtue. It had taken some time to regain his confidence after the fall, but by now, he was as convinced of himself as ever.

Not that Cromwell condemned him for it. A monarch as powerful as Henry needed confidence, even arrogance, to be able to lead a nation. He had to set himself apart from average humans and awe his subjects, for the flesh of a king was sacred and his mission, holy. In any case, the accident and its aftermath had wrought so many positive changes in his Majesty that his haughtiness could easily be overlooked.

"Mister Secretary," Henry continued, "I am bound to protect this blessed realm and monitor the spiritual health of my people, whom I love. Tell me, is it not my duty to cleanse a corrupt Church and heal it? To put a stop to the presumptuous power of the monks? Is it not?"

Cromwell skillfully managed to hide a satisfied smile. This was exactly the line of thinking he supported.

"It is indeed, your Majesty. As Head of the Church of England, your Grace is responsible for the religious customs practised in England and for all things related to the spiritual institutions of this realm."

Henry nodded gravely. "Then let us hope that we will be able to prove all doubters wrong, my lord."

"I am sure we will be, your Majesty."

"Thank you, Mister Secretary," Henry said, rising from his chair. "You may leave me now. There are others who require my attention." He smiled vaguely, his eyes unfocused for a brief moment. Cromwell knew that look. It was undoubtedly linked to thoughts of the one person in the world who had more influence on the king than the Secretary himself.

"May I send my compliments to her Grace, the Queen," he said evenly, "assuring her that I am her loving servant at all times, and praying that she finds herself in good health and happiness."

Henry, who knew the obligatory courtesies at court for what they were, was nevertheless pleased with Cromwell's polite wishes, as anything that was to his wife's benefit gave him immense pleasure.

"I will pass on your greetings, my lord. Good day to you now," he added somewhat impatiently, expecting Anne to come through the door any minute.

Cromwell understood. He bowed low before he left the privy chamber and started making his way to his own office, still clutching the document Henry had signed. He did not meet Anne on the way and wondered where she was, but did not dwell on the thought. As soon as he was seated behind his desk in his office, his clerks started to present him with more petitions and letters that had come in, and he bowed his head to start working through them. He worked diligently and precisely, as usual, but even as he concentrated on the tasks at hand, browsing through mountains of paper and dictating letters, his thoughts kept drifting back to the king, the Dissolution of the Monasteries and - the Queen.

In the two months that had passed since the king's accident, and his consequent loss of memory, they had acted jointly in their quest to support his Majesty in every possible way. They had cooperated, putting aside their strife and treating each other with the mutual respect that had been lacking in the weeks prior to the king's fall. A great deal of it was calculation, the cold scheming only the truly ambitious are capable of. But from time to time they would catch themselves in a moment of nostalgia, remembering that they had once been true friends, both committed to mutual religious and personal matters.

They were friends no more. Allies, yes. It was their mutual desire to remain in power and the king's good graces, and so they had banded together.

And together, so much was clear, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Closest to the Crown, and both willing to forget any old resentments for the time being, the entire court was awed by their coalition. Not only could they rely on the love of the king, who, much to many people's dismay, apparently trusted his Secretary more than ever and seemed to be obsessed once more with his wife, but they had the support of the powerful Boleyn faction and those clever people realizing that this was not the time to openly defy Anne and Cromwell. Even Charles Brandon, who had never before made a secret of the fact that he hated them both with a passion, kept a low profile, probably aware of the fact that this was not the time to plot against his Majesty's two favourites. For that his ultimate goal was to destroy them, Cromwell had never doubted. He was glad that they did not have to deal with him right now. Brandon could be a tedious enemy, extremely stubborn and peculiarly ambiguous in his self-righteousness.

Yes, so far they had managed very well. They had been able to keep their enemies in check, even to approach some of them. Anne, who had told him of her desire to appease some of her former foes, had supported him along the way and he could not help but rejoice in her abilities as a courtier. Her intelligence, spirit and courage were rare in the consort of a king, and to his knowledge she was the epitome of a self-made woman. But this also made her dangerous. He knew the power she wielded, now that she was back in the king's good graces. He also remembered the quarrels they had had before the king's accident, and he suspected that she still did not approve of everything he did, especially in relation to the Dissolution. And yet, she had curbed any anger she might be harbouring against him and acted as his loyal ally these past weeks. Theirs was a close and fruitful collaboration.

A much more unwelcome thought suddenly came to him, and, fumbling on his desk, he pulled out a document Anne had given to him but a few days ago. With a sigh, he looked at the neat handwriting and the small, elegant signature at the bottom of the sheet.

"Ah, Mary, Mary…" he muttered to himself, careful not to attract his clerks' attention.

The young woman had finally submitted to her father's will and taken the Oath. She had accepted her illegitimacy, the unlawfulness of her mother's marriage to the king, Elizabeth as the rightful heir to the throne - and Anne as Queen. In principle, nothing now stood in the way of a return to court and a reconciliation with his Majesty, as Anne had promised her.

Nothing but the simple fact that the king had no idea of Mary's existence.

It had been hard enough for Cromwell and the Queen to inform him of the events that had resulted in his supremacy over the Church of England: the endless dispute with Rome, his own excommunication, and, last but not least, the long struggle with Katherine of Aragon.

Henry had been shocked and confused to learn of his first marriage, having no recollection of it at all. He could neither remember Katherine, nor their courtship or anything that concerned their union. At first he had stubbornly refused to believe that he was supposed to have divorced and sent away a woman he had been married to for so long, although the Secretary and Anne had done their best to give as flowery an explanation of it all as possible. He had even demanded to see her portrait and then gazed at it for hours, trying to make sense of the knowledge that he had been married before, and to a woman who had been beloved of the English people, only to throw it all away and defy the Pope himself.

Cromwell had then begun to fear the worst, but he need not have worried. Anne's charm worked its magic once more, and the king's doubts quickly vanished when he realized that he had done it all in order to be with his beloved, who already carried Elizabeth when he finally got to marry her. Cromwell, with the careful help of Archbishop Cranmer, soon managed to convince the king that his marriage to Katherine had never been lawful, that she had failed to provide him with a male heir despite the length of their marriage, and that divorce had been the right and only option at the time. Soon, Henry could be found reading passages in the bible once more, passages which proclaimed that a man should not marry his brother's wife, and with his god-given ability to persuade himself of things he really wanted to believe, he was soon convinced that his first union was unlawful in the eyes of God and the world and that he had rightly stripped Katherine of her title in order to give it to Anne.

Naturally, Cromwell stoically avoided to mention in what an unseemly manner the poor woman had been treated in the last three years of her life, so that Henry could console himself with the notion that everything had proceeded in an honourable fashion, with all the respect due even to a fallen queen. Also, the king's lust for power was as great as before the accident, and he would never have questioned anything he had done in order to make himself Head of the Church. And lastly, his love for Anne was so great that he would never have cast doubt on any measure he had taken in order to make her his wife. She was his obsession, even if he did not realize it, and Cromwell never ceased to be amazed by the things that woman could do with just one subtle look in her radiant blue eyes.

Yes, the matter of Katherine of Aragon was no longer a problem, for she was dead and gone, but the king's eldest daughter, a young woman now, was still very much alive. Henry had jumped to the conclusion that the marriage to Katherine was entirely childless, and so he had no idea that Mary was out there in the country, mistreated, ill and lonely.

It was a miracle that he had not yet heard of her yet. Her refusal to take the Oath had created a stir all over Europe for years, and she was very popular among the common people. Even after her mother's death she still had many friends at court, people who had either loved Katherine of Aragon and were now eager to support her daughter's claim to the throne, or who simply hated the Boleyn faction and would do anything to see Queen Anne and her bastard daughter destroyed.

Why Chapuys, her greatest ally, had not yet spoken up for her could be easily explained, for all letters from him in which he referred to the Lady Mary were read by Cromwell first and then burned. The others who knew of the king's memory, like the Boleyns, either had no interest in revealing that Mary was alive or had been bought off or blackmailed into silence, like the various doctors who had examined his Majesty since his accident. But why Charles Brandon, who could easily have used this opportunity to land the Secretary and the Queen in difficulties, had not yet mentioned Mary, was a mystery. Perhaps the Boleyns had blackmailed him too; Cromwell could not be sure. Perhaps the duke was simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

This way or the other, he had kept his mouth shut, and so neither Cromwell nor the Queen had had to broach the difficult subject yet. They were aware of the effect the news might have on Henry, whose anger was easily provoked and who could lash out cruelly when he felt deceived. So far, his infamous temper had not really been tested and he had been more than gentle and placid since his accident, but it was perfectly possible that the fiery temperament and childlike mood swings were still there, buried deep inside his elusive mind. The Henry of the old days had been an unsteady man, generous and kind at one moment, dangerous and capricious the next. However much he had changed, they still feared what would happen if they told him of Mary. But Cromwell knew as well as Anne that they could not wait much longer.

They had no more time to lose.

* * *

Anne, unaware of Cromwell's musings, which were so similiar to her own, regarded herself quietly in one of the massive mirrors in her apartments. She stared at the image before her as if she did not know what to make of it, and then, involuntarily, she lifted a hand and ran it over her breasts, her collarbone and finally, her slender neck.

For a brief moment there was a glimmer in her outlandish eyes, a self-mocking spark of fear and foreboding – only to be extinguished the moment one of her ladies approached her. She turned her head to greet the young woman with a smile.

"Cousin Madge?"

"Your Majesty," Lady Shelton curtsied deeply. She looked up at her mistress with a bright, secretive smile, an expression Anne found endearing. Madge's was such a genuine, girlish grace, unsullied by affectation and seductive conduct. For the life of her, but she did not understand why Henry Norris had not yet married the lady.

"What is it?" Anne asked kindly.

Madge produced a small box she had been hiding behind her back. "Madam, before you meet him, the king's Majesty wishes you to have this."

"Another gift?" Anne asked incredulously. Henry really lost no opportunity to spoil her with expensive presents such as jewellery, fine tapestries for her chambers, or anything else of high value and excellent craftsmanship. "Open it, cousin."

Madge held the box in one hand and slowly lifted the lid with the other, revealing dark red velvet upon which lay a massive diamond necklace. As the lady's eyes widened, Anne let out a gasp. She raised a trembling hand to the necklace and gingerly touched the crystal clear diamonds, expertly cut and polished, interspaced with tiny little amethysts and dark sapphires – jewels fit for a queen.

She shook her head with a disbelieving laugh. "His Majesty is too kind to me."

"It's so very beautiful, Madam. Would you like to try it on?"

Anne nodded and let Madge fasten the precious gift around her neck. It looked fantastic on her alabaster skin, reflecting the dark colour of her hair and the blue of her expensive damask dress.

Madge smiled slightly, amazed as always at the Queen's handsomeness. It was so strange, since she was in no way a conventional beauty. Her face was too heart-shaped, her eyebrows too slanted, her mouth too pert. Her features were a weird mixture of childish sweetness and hard lines, and her whole appearance too mysterious to measure up to the ideal of the dainty and innocent English rose. But maybe it was this very air of mystery surrounding her that made her so attractive. Those eyes were like forbidden pools, filled to the brim with the clearest blue water, but beneath it lurked seduction, passion and danger. No wonder the king was obsessed with her. No wonder, she though sadly, that Henry Norris preferred the Queen to herself. After all, how could her own sugary, almost homely appeal compete with the magnetic pull of this living rapture? She stepped back with an inaudible sigh and watched as the Queen looked at herself in the mirror, her dark head held high.

Anne herself would never have denied that she was a vain woman, proud of her appearance and aware of the effect it could have on people, especially on men, who were so easily corrupted. She had used her unique beauty many times to charm them, the King being the paramount example. He had always been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, powerless against her appeal.

_"You are so very beautiful... so very desirable. I have to possess you utterly." _

And now, now that she was back at the beginning, his admiration for her knew no boundaries. He kept telling her how gorgeous she was, how much he wanted her. They regularly spent the nights together, and nothing on earth could give her more pleasure than being with him in the most intimate way possible. He had definitely not lost his memory in that department. But sharing his bed had more advantages than merephysical pleasure. By controlling his nether regions, she controlled his mind, at least to a certain degree, and control over his mind meant influence, power, and wealth.

She nodded involuntarily as if to reassure herself that she held his heart in her palm, that she need not be afraid of their next encounter. But she could not shake it off, the terrible fear of displeasing him and losing his trust.

For today, she was going to tell him about Mary.

Three days had passed since her return from Hatfield, and she could no longer flee from the responsibility. She did not want to leave this extremely important matter to Cromwell, and time was runninng out. The right moment would never come anyway.

It was not that she did not know what to say. Everything was prepared, her speech ready. She had always had a way with words and to influence Henry with them. In any case, he was madly in love with her, wherefore she had every reason to believe that he would accept anything she might come up with in order to justify herself for not telling him earlier of his eldest daughter.

But the nervous feeling remained.

Too often in the terrible weeks before his accident had he rejected and mistreated her. Too often had she provoked him, unable to curb her temper. Too often had they quarreled. And although the old days were gone, Anne was not foolish enough to assume that Henry's inner self had changed completely. True, he was as benevolent, tender and gracious as in their glory days, but that could change. She prayed God every day that her husband would remain like this forever - but she could not rely on it. She had learned her lesson.

"Come now, cousin," she turned around to face Madge, "I must see his Majesty."

* * *

"Sweetheart!"

Henry made an attempt to rise from his chair in front of the fireplace to greet his wife, who had just come through the door, but the wound on his leg thwarted his plans. He flinched a little and sat back down, annoyed at the intensity of the pain. When he noticed Anne's worried expression, he forced a smile and shrugged.

"It's nothing, my lady. Come closer, I beg you."

She obeyed and approached him with a smile. "Your Majesty."

"Closer still," he demanded slyly. "Here, sit on my knee."

When she had slipped onto his lap, Henry raked his eyes over her slender form, grinning when he noticed the massive piece of jewellery around her neck.

"I see you're wearing my gift," he observed, taking the small hand she offered him and stroking it gently.

"Does it suit me?"

He raised his brows. "Of course it does, sweetheart. You're always beautiful. Especially..." he lowered his voice, his eyes wandering down her bodice to the place where her thighs met under the dress, "when you have nothing on... at all."

Anne could feel her core tightening at his daring words, and her mouth opened a little. The physical chemistry between them was so great it almost overwhelmed her but with difficulty she got a grip on herself. She could not think of sleeping with him now. This was not the right time.

She cleared her throat, ignoring Henry's knowing little smile, and got from his lap.

"Henry..." she began informally, slipping into their usual routine of calling themselves by their first names, but then faltered. How to begin?

"Anne." He was still smiling seductively.

When she did not say anything after a while, Henry chuckled, "What ails my beautiful Queen?"

She looked up at him, trying to figure out if he suspected anything. But how could he? No, he was just teasing her. She needed to pull herself together. "It's nothing, my love."

Feeling that she was not quite ready yet, she searched for another topic to talk about. There must be a way to divert him for a little while, to buy herself some time...

An idea came to her suddenly, and she gave him a bright smile. "Tell me, may I see the verses you wrote the other day? My lord Cromwell interrupted us when you were about to show them to me."

He seemed very happy with the suggestion, and Anne breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah, yes," he exclaimed, "I've been wanting to show them to you." He rose from his chair now, ignoring the pain in his leg, and slowly walked up to her. One could virtually taste the desire hovering between them but he smugly avoided touching her. Instead, he simply leaned in a little and whispered into her ear, "I want to _ravish_ you with my words..."

Anne let out a sharp breath, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her. Unseen by him, her eyes widened. She had told him once to write letters to her, _to ravish her with his words... _to seduce her. Was he starting to remember things? Was his memory coming back to him? Her mind was running wild. She did not know if she should be pleased that he was remembering something from so long ago or if she should start worrying about what else he might soon remember.

But then, as his lips touched her neck and she felt his hands on her body, she relaxed. She looked into his eyes and there was no recollection in them, no memory. She sighed inwardly. He had no idea. He had not remembered. _Thank God. _

"Show me," Anne whispered.

Henry quickly produced a sheet of paper from a table standing nearby.

"It's called 'Those looks whose beams be joy." he said, unfolding the sheet. "Let me read it to you."

His voice, full of ardour, gave her a warm and fuzzy feeling.

_"Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight,  
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is:  
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light:  
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss:_

_That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might:_  
_Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss:_  
_That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white:_  
_Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss:_

_That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears:_  
_That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be,_  
_As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it bears,_

_Makes me in my best thought and quiet'st judgment see,_  
_That in no more but these I might be fully blest:_  
_Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest."_

Anne, who had been listening intently, like a child would to a lullaby, couldn't say anything. She just stood there, looking at him as if she couldn't believe this was the same man who had threatened to replace her with another woman two months ago. God, he was in so deep_... It's true, what they have whispered, _she tought with both pleasure and an odd pang of fear. _He is obsessed with me again. _

"Well?" he teased. "What do you think? It's an ode to your beauty."

"Your Majesty, it is all beyond my deserving..." she squeezed out, at a loss for words.

She took a step back, trying to distance himself from him and clear her thoughts. How on earth was she going to tell him about Mary, now that he had read this poem to her? It wasn't the right moment. She couldn't do this. She couldn't...

_But you must. _

There was curiosity in Henry's eyes. "Anne?"

She did not answer and moved away from him until she had reached one of the large windows, where she placed two trembling hands on the pane.

"Anne?" He persisted. "What is it? Don't you like it?"

She shook her head decidedly.

"Then what is it? Have I made you unhappy?"

"No!" She exlaimed suddenly, sharply. "You have made me the happiest woman alive. The most happy! It's just..."

With a violent jerk of her head, she finally tore herself away from the window and faced him. There was a desperate look in her wild eyes he had never seen before, a tenseness in her slender body that touched his heart. Gently, he placed a reasurring hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

"Don't touch me. I'm not worth it."

"Are you mad? Why are you not worthy when I deem you so?" He touched her alabaster cheek. "I love you."

Anne let out a sigh, lowering her head. She hated herself for being so weak, but she could hardly ever control her emotions in Henry's presence. Her inability to act reasonably and calmly around him, as a king's wife should, had always been a problem in their marriage, but she simply could not bring herself to see him as her master first and her husband second. Her feelings for him were too raw, too strongly based on passion, jealousy and love - the emotions of a lover, not a queen.

"There is something," she began wearily, fearful of the anger he would surely unleash on her any minute now, "something very imporant you need to know. Something that... I've kept hidden from you."

Henry frowned. "Why would you keep anything hidden from me?" Then, as an afterthought, he added, "If this is about Katherine... I thought you knew that I know everything about what happened. And it's alright. I regret nothing." He'd had an inkling these past weeks that his first marriage was something that greatly occupied her mind, however much she suceeded in hiding it from everyone but him. He had learned to read her face, and whenever someone mentioned the late Dowager Princess, she would narrow her eyes and press her lips together in silent agitation.

Anne let out a bitter laugh. "But you do not know everything," she stated matter-of-factly. "Not everything..."

Henry raised his brows. What on earth was she talking about? Anne was not the type to keep something truly momentous from him, was she? He trusted her with all of his heart; she was his soulmate. Nothing on earth could come between them.

"Sweetheart," he said gently, giving her a small smile, "you can tell me. Whatever it is." He laughed nervously when she did not answer straight away. "It cannot be that bad, can it?"

Anne felt like she was being strangled. She couldn't do this anymore, couldn't keep it in. She needed to tell him now or she would never muster up the courage to do it.

"Your Majesty..."

Swiftly, in a gesture of submission, she took his right hand in hers and fell to her knees, looking up at him with pleading eyes. He startled, confused by her actions, but made no attempt to free himself.

"I beg your Grace to forgive me, for I've kept something hidden from you that I should have told you weeks ago. I have... failed to inform you of the existence of a certain... woman. A young woman. But, as you love me," she added hastily, "I beseech you to believe me that I meant no harm. All I had in mind was the tranquillity of yourself and your Majesty's realm."

Henry's eyes revealed nothing but his hands tightened around her small one. "A young woman you say? Who is she?"

"A woman of your own blood." Anne replied, lowering her eyes.

Something dawned on Henry as he took in her words, and he looked down at her with the astonished eyes of a child. A young woman. At first he had thought of a forgotten sister, but what could his own sister possibly have to do with Katherine of Aragon? No, this wasn't about a sister. It was about...

Reading his thoughts, Anne nodded solemnly, "Yes. You have another daughter. The Lady Mary Tudor. She is Katherine's child."

It was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Now she had paid her dues, and nothing could be worse than getting it off of her chest.

But perhaps she was wrong.

Her elation instantly faded when she felt Henry's grip slacken and he let go of her hand. Her arm still in the air, she looked at him as he backed away from her. It was a bizarre situation, but she could not move; she was breathless, spellbound. She looked at him, still pleading him with her eyes, those eyes he loved so much, to forgive her, to understand. Would he hold it against her?

She had her answer when his expression changed, the smooth lines of his handsome face turning into a grimace of hurt, disappointment - and anger. There was a glimpse of the old Henry in his intense blue eyes, the one who had scorned and chided her before the acccident, and a shiver ran down Anne's spine.

_My God,_ she thought to herself, _save me. _

Nevertheless, she met his eyes squarely, the famous spirit of the Howards strengthening her resolve. Now he knew about Mary, and she, Anne, had taken it upon himself to weather the storm that would soon break loose, when his rage would wash over her with the force of an avalanche. In spite of her tenseness, a tiny smile formed on her lips, a self-mocking, knowing smile.

_Now, Katherine, how like you this? There's still a chance that your daughter will be my downfall. _

And as Henry's eyes focused on her and narrowed into slits, it was to Anne as if she could hear Katherine's voice, calm, dignified, solemn, the giver of the same chilling premonition as years ago:

_"He's infatuated by you, as men often are by new things. Soon he will see you for what you really are. And he will tire of you... as of all the others."  
_

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_**To be continued...**  
_

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_**Dear readers, I apologize for not updating sooner - I know I'm one lazy girl. Anyway, ******__after my lengthy abscence I thought it would be nice to post a longer chapter, and I really hope you liked it. Thanks for reading in the first place and for all the follows and favourites. It means so much to me. _

_**Oh, by the way, "Those looks whose beams be joy" was not written by Henry VIII but Sir Philip Sidney, of course. Please excuse my artistic licence.**_

_**The next chapter will hopefully be up soon. Very soon! Be well.  
**_


	17. Interlude - The definition of love

**Dear readers, I'm so very sorry for the delay. I know I said last time the next chapter would be up soon, very soon, and I didn't keep my promise. It's been almost 5 months since my last update and my only excuse is that life's been crazy. I just couldn't find the time or muse to continue, and I won't have much time over the next two or three months either, so I definitely cannot promise anything. This is just a short chapter, a kind of interlude, because I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer and wanted to post at least _something_ for you guys to read. I've already started writing the next chapter and I'll post it as soon as I possibly can. Be well and please let me know what you think! To me, that is the true definition of love ;-)**

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**Interlude – The definition of love**

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He couldn't believe it.

Why had she done this to him? Why would she betray him so, she who was his lifeblood, his passion, his _all_?

Frozen in place, Henry looked down at Anne's crouched form. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply stared at her, unable to speak. She had not moved an inch since her breathless confession, still kneeling before him, her hand clutching his. Her fingers were cold.

As he searched her eyes for an explanation, he could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest and the blood rushing through his veins. All was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Time stood still.

And then, suddenly, something snapped inside of him.

His lips twitching, he violently jerked his hand away, causing Anne to stagger. With pleasure he would have watched her fall, and for a second he was tempted to push her to the ground, press her delicate face to the wooden floor and listen to her cries. But he didn't.

Instead, he turned away from her and blindly slammed his fist down on the great table next to him. A candle fell to the floor with a thud, spilling wax over the thick carpet and his expensive leather boots. He felt tears of rage running down his cheeks and as he licked them from his lips, it was to him as if he could taste his own foolishness... the bitter flavour of betrayed trust. Wiping them away with the hem of his sleeve, his eyes suddenly fell on the poem he had written for Anne. With a malicious growl, he grabbed it and crumpled the sheet in his left hand. He wanted to tear it to pieces and watch the flames devour it.

Dimly, he could hear Anne swallow behind him and out of the corner of his eye he could see that she had risen to her feet. Not bothering to compose himself, he spun around and wagged his finger at her, his jaw trembling.

"How _dare_ you?" he spat, his eyes mere slits as he approached her. "How dare you keep such a thing from me?"

She did not reply but stared anxiously at him, her breath coming hard. Her silence only intensified his fury, spurring him on to say things he would never have said to her under different circumstances. In his turmoil, he did not realize the magnitude of her panic, the intensity of her fear. He knew nothing of the sense of foreboding overwhelming her as she watched him turn into his old self.

All he knew was that he had trusted her blindly, believing everything she'd said during the past weeks. Consequently, he had assumed he only had this one daughter, Elizabeth, England's sole princess and heir presumptive to the throne. It was true, he admitted to himself in a moment of honesty, he had never inquired after the possible existence of another child. But neither Anne nor Cromwell or Brandon had felt the need to inform him of their own accord that he had another daughter, who, even if she was a bastard, was of royal blood – of greater descent, in fact, than Elizabeth herself.

He didn't know what to make of the magnitude of Anne's deception. Had she not told him, not two weeks ago, of a promise they had made long before their marriage, always to be truthful with each other? A solemn vow never to betray the other or keep anything from them – _the true definition of love. _

Apparently, all of this meant nothing to her.

He felt so used, so deceived. Looking back, he recalled the odd spark in her eyes whenever Katherine of Aragon was mentioned, the fear and guilt in her expression. Now it all made sense. Now he knew that she had been hiding something of great importance the entire time, never caring for his feelings.

He did not stop in his musings to consider the possibility that Anne's silence on the subject may have had something to do with the fact that she felt the need to protect her own daughter's rights and position. He did not take into account – and did not remember - that it was his own doing that Mary was not residing at court, that it was his decision to have her declared a bastard and banish her mother in order to marry Anne. All these things did not enter the storm brewing in his mind - a mind that, even after the accident, was still selfish, insecure and easily corrupted.

All he could think about was that she had betrayed him...

And betrayal was the worst sin of all.

"How dare you presume what I ought to know and what not?" He continued, his face mere inches from hers now.

"I AM THE KING OF ENGLAND!"

Before he could say more, Anne staggered backwards as if struck by a blow, panting for breath. She grabbed onto a chair for support and gazed at him with terrified eyes, her lips moving in a silent plea.

It was then, seeing her despair, that Henry stopped raging, staring incredulously as she recoiled from him. For a fleeting moment it was to him as if he could see himself in a mirror on the wall behind her, his face a hideous mask, eyes burning, teeth bared. He stumbled backwards, appalled by the vision, and ran a hand through his hair.

_What am I doing? _

Slowly, his breath evened and with an effort he pulled himself together, void now of all emotion except fatigue. He was tired, so very tired of it all. He needed to be alone before he did things he would surely regret later.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, looking up at his wife, who was still clutching the chair as if she needed all the help she could get. "Forgive me. I don't know what came over me." He took a step forward as if to put a hand on her shoulder but quickly changed his mind. Maybe it was better if he did not touch her now. She was obviously shocked and he was still confused, angry, disappointed... He had to get away from her.

"Madam," he managed to say, "I will speak with you... when you are well."

She nodded absent-mindedly, avoiding to look at him. Relieved, he gave her a short nod before walking past her, suddenly terribly aware of the pain in his injured leg. He made his way to the door leading to the adjoining room, his bedchamber, and reached for the doorknob, glad he'd had the wisdom to send away all the grooms earlier today. If anyone had witnessed this scene between him and the Queen, rumour would have spread like wildfire at court, and he couldn't afford that.

His hand lingered on the handle for a moment. He was tempted to turn around and look at Anne, into those eyes he loved so much... But he needed to be alone. He was not sure of his emotions yet, did not know what would happen if he stayed. Leaving her to her own devices was the best option he had. Retiring to his chamber would give her the chance to leave in her own time and head back to her apartments. They could still talk tomorrow, when he would know what to say to her. Tomorrow, he would be himself again.

With a sigh, he opened the door and left the room, never looking back.

As soon as he was alone in his bedchamber, he collapsed into a chair by the fireplace and waited. After a few minutes he perceived the clatter of light feet and the rustling of a heavy skirt, then a creaking sound as the door leading out to the palace's corridors was opened and fell shut soon after.

Strangely relieved, Henry let out a sharp breath. He was about to rest his head in his hands when he noticed that he was still clutching the crumpled poem in his left palm. Startled, he let it fall into his lap and stared at it. He recalled some of the lines he had written in Anne's honour:

"_Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight,  
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is... " _

Impulsively, he grabbed the tiny ball and threw it into the dying embers of the fire.


End file.
